You are lying in divine disarray!
Your flowing midnight hair is a goodnight lullaby,
an echo of aurora on a crimson river,
and there, van Gogh envisioned his painting
"starry night over the Rhone."
Glory, glory to your burning bright eyes!
hues of concealed passion delight,
and there, Blake crystallized his poem
" ............burning bright,
in the forest of the night.”
I saw her first when I boarded the train to the University Hospital. She had flowing black hair and big, expressive eyes. It was a Friday morning. The train arrived exactly at 9:15. She stood out in the train full of blonde people. The coach was packed with students; I was standing about twenty feet from her. I could see her occasionally through a sea of people. Everyone was busy or at least, looked busy with his smart phone. She was holding onto the iron stand and looking outside through the door.
At the University stadium, almost half of the students got down. I readjusted my location about five feet from her. At this point, I could vividly see her. She was in a black jacket with a grey top underneath. A black skirt with black slakes added to her voluptuousness. About a quarter of her bosom glittered bright in the low November sun. She was most probably in her early twenties and corners of her eyes were yet to yield into the wrinkles of advancing winter. We were standing opposite to each other. When the train started to move, she looked an askance at me. Within a few seconds, she looked again. I made sure to pass a slight smile though I couldn't determine if she smiled back. There was a little movement at the right corner of her lips. Our communication did not last long; she got down at the next station.
On Monday, I made sure to board the same train. My wandering eyes searched for the girl. She was seated by a window beside a young woman with two over exuberant kids. Dark clouds were hanging over the city and a few rain drops just arrived on the window pane. Inside the train, almost everyone was indulged with electronic gadgets.
"I should sit beside her at the Stadium station," I thought. At the next station, I walked gingerly towards her and sat in the front seat. She still had the brightest pair of eyes but, her hair color was changed to chestnut brown over the weekend. Her ample bosom was hidden under the veil of cruel red jacket. I noticed a tattoo of cross on the left side of her neck. There was a beauty spot right below the tattoo; so was on just above her upper lip.
"Those lips are deserved to be kissed with care and utmost passion," I thought. While the neighboring people were busy in their worlds of a foot radius, she was looking intently outside. Once, she looked right into my eyes. It was painfully acerbic. So, I looked at her reflection on the window. Our eyes met at the focal point of the window once. It was smooth heaven.
That night, I dreamed of the girl in train. She was in shabby white clothes. She had scars all over her face, dry lips, slightly bent nose to the right side, hair in shambles and thick lines on her forehead. She was sick and her mouth smelled like rotten egg. She was leaning towards me with her bright eyes on my lips. I was sure that she was in a mood of coquetry. A feeling of disgust and infatuation overwhelmed me. The more I looked at her the more a man, rather than a woman, incapacitated my sub-consciousness.
