The Carafe

By Avinaba Sarkar

That day under the tree the morning breeze was carrying the enigma of life, when I saw a carafe

sitting by me. As I drew closer, the scent of her spirit blew me out of the water. I was tempted to

sniff to the last drop. I presume the creeper encircling the tree knows of my venereal thoughts. It has

seen me set my sights on her flared lip, longing to drink her wine. I could’ve killed me for a few more

moments drenched in that smell, but I had to pull out.

How could I have taken her? There was no

evidence of union. So I left her there and I travel in her essence, ever since.

My existence now houses a contour of that aroma, leaving an eternal thirst on my lips. And if I am to

take the lid off, then it’s madness. But believe me whoever reads, if you would have known you too

would choose madness over sanity. That day I bottled myself in that carafe. I know now that in

reality I haven’t moved an inch away from her. And though I have not drank a droplet of her wine, I

am intoxicated.

So like a painter I will keep my canvas untouched. Waiting for my inspiration to bring in the colors.

One day, under some tree.

By Avinaba Sarkar