Plain Old-Fashion Affection

I’d like some plain old-fashion affection please.

I want you to show it to me in the wildest, steamiest, most carnal way possible.

I want you to hold me like I’d dissipate into the air if you don’t, and make me feel loved, wanted, needed like there isn’t another being on earth that you can replace me with.

I want you to claim the love that I’ve been keeping for you in my heart, in my soul, in the very fabric of my being.

It’s yours my love, take it. Take it and take me to the realm of our dreams, to the world where the life we imagined to spend together is a reality. Where you and I are One Whole, for all eternity.

I’m waiting. 


Waiting since the dawn of time, till the end of days. 

The Book Addict

She caressed the pages of the book, like it was the skin of a long-lost lover. Her delicate fingers running through the lines on the pages, gingerly, as if the words will scramble and get sick with her touch if she’s not careful. A smile surfaced on her face when she was gazing fondly at the pages, reading a line or two, taking in the flavour of the story being told, making herself a part of it.

It was her favourite thing. Reading. It meant the world to her.o-WOMAN-READING-BOOK-facebook

Of Restless Nights

I’ve had them before. 

Restless Nights are not new to me. 

So, why, why, why oh why do they still feel so unbearable? 

I’ve had the fair share of love in my life. More than the fair share I would say. 

So, why do I still feel like I need more? 

Why so greedy? 

Why hungry for more? 

“No, it’s not gonna happen.” 

“But what if, we can make a change?” 

“What if, you’d stop discussing it?”

“No, no. Hear me out, just please.” 

“I’m not interested. I have a life.” 

“So do I. But what if I say, my life would be a little better if you are here? Here with me?”



It was his last day at the foundry.

He looked around. Sighed. He was tired. Tired of casting metals, tired of giving them shapes, tired of the fire, the heat, the strain of the job.

He took a few steps towards the exit, stopped and looked back one last time. This is the place where he has spent decades casting metals, giving them shapes, sizes, turning them into whole objects to be used.

Would the world call him an artist for that? Does spending the better part of your life metalworking make you an artist?

“Hardly!” He thought to himself, chuckling.

Then left the Foundryman. The metalworking is now passed on to younger, more capable hands. But, only he knew that the art he created every day, won’t be created at the foundry again, not for a long time.