Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“It was raining, and he was still sitting on the chair by her body, dead by now. He looked every now and then at the blade he had killed her with, it was carrying her warm blood upon it, it had her smell in it, a distinct smell he could sense miles away, it was as if she had cast a spell upon him since the moment he walked by the doors of that bar that night and saw her seeing him. He did feel puzzled yet decided to enjoy the feeling, for it was exotic for him. She was like a tango music which makes you groove despite not knowing it, all tangled up.

He could hear someone playing at a distance through the noise of storm, and there was she lying in silence, still as much alive she was few hours ago, before he killed her. He felt a strong urge to touch her, blood upon her neck was tempting him, as if she was calling him to taste her. He put the blade back into his pocket and slowly went near and held her close. He did not want to hurry, he did not want to wake her up from that long sleep, and she continued to rest upon his shoulder. She felt to him like a piano he could play all night, dead yet alive, which haunts one through its whispering screams, all he needed was to touch her and tap her here and there to let the song out of her float in that night; drunk upon her eyes, lifeless yet giving a hope of afterlife to him.

He undressed her slowly while continuing to hold her close, dancing to that distant music, he felt he too would melt and would be washed ashore. She was like a sea asking him to let go and submerge. He kissed her dry lips, licked her cheeks, let his hand run through her body all across, his fingers were thrilled, he felt the rush of blood in his veins, and it was becoming a goblet of fire. Even in the rain he felt dry as a lotus leaf; for he was already drenched by her.

He did realize suddenly, it was time to go, he could no longer hold onto that precious creation he had just ruined, as if a flower plucked off the stems. He looked into her lifeless eyes one more time, he saw himself eclipsed by her. Scribbled all across his body, she had become his poetry, and he felt being owned by her now.

He slowly put her down by the wall, draped her in a shawl and glanced at her one last time; she was as alive as ever. He felt embarrassed for he failed to understand her poetry and yet she had given him words to scribble. He would write her a poem someday, he murmured and walked back. Someone was still playing the music at distance.