I took your arm
outstretched, it offered pulsing, lively veins to me.
I kept trying to write about your arms–
But failed.
Even describing with accuracy,
how beneath my fingers,
the hard muscles gave me warmth,
cooled me at the same time.
Something like your arms–
represent what’s beyond strength,
beyond action–
Life.
Love.
Our intimacy is unique,
like every intimate moment in time.
We never sweat the same, wash the same, catch the same breeze.

I opened a cupboard,
sprayed with the scent
of turmeric, I will never again turn to you,
And touch you,
And again be scented of India
this same way,
my cells will slough off and die.
The skin of your arms will be reborn, revised and refreshed.
Your muscles and veins,
your arms–flood time.
Flood the fabric of my life.
I kept trying to write about your arms–
But failed.
Everyday brings me to your arms,
that smell, that vibration,
oh, that everything,
is Love, finally writing about your arms.