Amidst wistful longings, he turned over his back to one side, closed his eyes, and draped his hands over the soft linen besides him, reminiscing the fragrance of her wavy hair, the sweet neck spot which she liked him to kiss (ticklish), and the way his leg used to perfectly entangle with hers, with both their toes curling inwards. As his fingers felt the starched fabric of linen, he remembered the way his hands traversed her saree waist, slowly, playfully, alerting the strands of hair, all the way to the belly button, when she directed them elsewhere. He hated to miss her.
If his love was lustful, she was his accomplice.
If his love knew no bounds, she let go all of her insecurities.
His love was in the moment, and she rowed the same boat.
In those fleeting moments, when they listened to each others heart beats, instead of counting sheeps, to fall asleep,
When their lips whispered wordless words,
When both their eyes glistened a similar sheen,
When he and she,
She and he,
That is what he reminisced,
He missed being her knight,
He missed being there for her day and night,
She lay with the stars now,
Guarded heavily with stardust,
Gazing at him, he wished,
He lay supine now,
Looking back at her,
Asking for nothing but one
One last Kiss.