I like to travel, read, write, dance and pretend. At the moment I am suffering an insufferable phase of self-aggrandizement, premature maturity and lack of wit.
If you think you can help me out of this funk, write me at idaman.z@gmail.com
Even in the clutches of a demented passion I remember you. I bury my face in her hair - it smells of lemongrass, excitingly exotic to her but so mundane to you - and I am reminded of you.
It is not the similarities between you and her that haunt me.
You are a slow breeze, a humid, sticky kiss at the back of my neck, gentle but pregnant with lightning, a tropical storm in waiting.
She is a spring morning, a symphony of fluttering fingers and smoke and flowers, a connoisseur of cusswords and lovewords.
Do I miss you?
It is not a craving, I admit. My appetite is made tame by the whip of her hips, the salty sweetness of her sweat. But when she sighs my name she reminds me of your throaty half-laughs of appreciation, and for a brief moment I would forget that I am touching her and not you.
