She was half naked; 

upto her soul, her Beethoven eyes…

I won’t mince my words, I wanted to sleep with her. 

As if memonts weren’t enough to comprehend the magnitude of a life. 

What if her breasts were the most poetic one and I lost a poem on those… 

Perhaps everything is not always about changes…it’s about the possibility of changes. 

I would sleep through this blazing lady of eloquence today…

Drunk writings are supposed to be intangible…

but isn’t it cool to draw it’s tangent on a rainy midnight? 

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