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By Rakshita Murugan

Watching your body rove in the sheets has made me speak archaic in the bedroom.

If it is comfort that my beloved seeks, may I pull you into my warmth?

In that labyrinthine exchange, would you let your guard down,

Will you sacrifice your sobriety and drown into my arms?

So you dredge into my chest, the hearth of the fire we stole from Eros.

The fire had died content earlier tonight, but in its place a flower has bloomed.

Besotted by its beauty, I tried to pluck it for my gentle man, but it burned my fingers. Out of it oozed liquid love, flowing ferociously and engulfing me in my helplessness. In the ocean of its luscious radiance, the petals floated. On each petal I found your name engraved.

It is Amaranth; It is watered with my love — But the roots are tied to you.

If I wish to pluck this flower and end my suffering, would I have to forgo you?

Let love destroy.

By Rakshita Murugan

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