Darker on Skin

 They said of the henna on the skin gets darker after removal, and the color intensifies,

The next lover will love you with unbearable intensity, with sheer determination that breeds obsession. 

The illicit gambling of hearts pounds for compelling possessions. 

The hands want to possess what the heart cannot.

The eyes want to stare what sight do not allow.

The lips want to touch the forbidden, 

The mind reminds of chaos. 

So, I spent hours on it, 

Designing, weaving, creating.

Every layers, every stroke of art as if speaks of my unblown desires.

I have opened my palm like a love letter,

A confession. 

Yes, I love to see your face, but it reminds me of my past lover whom I did not spare. 

A glimpse of yours would make my day,

But, I let it slide. 

Just as I let the stroke of line glide. 

I let the paste dry into prophecy,

It gets dark red, darker with night- just like my thoughts, just like my wildest imaginations. 

I wait for the results.

The shades of ruins and ruminations. 

They hide the new feelings that arises lest my heart should betray my mind,

It says, how many times will you get broken?!

Broken by desires of casanovas who gambles with heart and control freaks lile columbus- in the intoxication of discovery they play with fire and burn themselves in it. 

Who are lost in their own games of revival. 

Lost and found, lost again. 

Lost in the distant islands,

Found in new state-

To possess.

To replace.

To own.

To control.

To spread hatred.

Hours passed, the clock said its midnight twelve,

But, tell me why should I wait for a stain to darken on my skin to see how much love I might attain?! 

What kind of love is this that needs to be proven by how deeply it penetrates into my skin and bleeds into my flesh?!

I have seen darkest of night unarmed, 

I had been a knight living in a prison, growing up with follicles in folly period.

Where promises faded when they stained deeper,

Words echoed that lingered longer,

Touches that would burn the skin more than ember, 

Scars left as if it won't wash away with water.

Dissolved into the acid of poisonous love potion. 

And, still the promises were broken,

Words forgotten, 

Touches bygone,

Smooches hidden,

Scars faded, just as time moved on.

Everything is crystal clear, ineptly wiped out,

As if nothing matters. 

The henna is dried now.

The colors fading away, just like the faded moments. 

As if each passing days knocks down the departure.

Reminds me, one day there won't be another day, another me to write poetry or handicraft.

So, when my hands turned almost black, 

Or, almost ruby red,

I trembled. 

I remembered my almost moments with almost people in almost places where we almost belonged. 

Under the quiet tyranny of the time,

I did not think of running of it,

Instead, time felt heavier. 

Breaths suffocating as if they are weight hundreds of pounds, and everything is slipping away from my palms. 

When I saw the tints on my hands, 

I did not think of devotion,

Of creed, or beliefs, or ideals. 

Or, standards. 

I thought of how easily we take permanence of anything so serious. 

We mistake love as permanent, 

And, permanence as love.

But, I think love is in the fleeting moments when we stop clock, time, thoughts, rules and step ahead by breaking bounds and jumping barriers. 

Because, now when I look into my hands, 

Even the darkest henna will crack, will flake, will fade, will abandon my skin in silence with passing time, 

Just like the ones who swore they never would,

But, they disappeared simply like the henna applied on my hands. 

Each time a new with renewal of designs, patterns and hues. 

©® Farheen Akter Bhuian Nancy 

Timestamp: 12.55 am, Tagar, Midnight thoughts after henna application