The snow that won’t fall easily,
Only melt inside our stubborn hearts,
Our bodies, crashing like meteors,
As the thread between us,
Becomes a rope holding us tighter, closer,
Day after day, and two gold rings
Orbiting two ring fingers,
As we let the snow in our heart, melt away.
The gradients of warmth that engulf us
Spring breaking through our drawn eyes,
Wife turning to a goddess in bed,
Husband transforming into a skillful lover,
The marriage that could have gone anywhere
Heating up, almost like a green house,
And like the snowcap of Kilimanjaro,
Our arrangements dissolved slowly,
Until we stood elated of the very fact,
That fate could actually be so skillfully arranged,
And we, two descendants, of families from Bihar,
Two people in an arranged marriage,
Burning lava, climbing out of all her craters,
The sounds of eruption, beautifying
Our bedroom, a white sheet, on which
We make our bodies profess our molten fire.
And we look up, at the summit of Kilimanjaro,
Knowing it was what kept us together.
The strangers we were, on the wedding day,
The coldness of our palms on our wedding night.
The mechanical flow of foreplay, and yet steamy percussion,
Becoming smoother, tighter and louder, with time.
Knowing we had a protracted journey of discovery
Ahead of us, pacing for a long eternity,
How beautiful, never to run out of something,
And that four letter word, didn’t bounce to and fro,
Only sheltered inside our naïve hearts,
Colliding on interfaces of lip and flesh.
Man and woman on their marriage bed,
A lifetime of inching out,
Of slow melting snow.