Six Yards Of Souvenir

You seeped into these -

Shriveled insides of mine, 

In a way as seamless as - 

That loose end of the saree,

I yesterday docilely draped,

Around me, at times tingling -

My flesh here and there -

With tinges of trepidation, 

Yet mostly weaving webs,

Of warmth upon my skin -

Every time I traced the tips -

Of my fingers along this long,

Trail of cloth and its empyrean,  

Dainty domains of laceworks.

You carved yourself -

Upon my core, causing,

Me to be callous for a -

A moment or so, benumbingly -

Baffled as I pondered,

If you would imperishably -

Dwell there or leave me,

All despaired, like those -

Instances where I stood rigid,

As shards of bone-chilling,

Numbness nudged those -

Exposed edges of my waist,

As I tucked the frigid fringes -

Of the saree firmly around them,

Afraid whether they would -

Stay put or keep protruding out.

And I was stupefied as you -

Demoulded devastatingly, 

Crafting a path of your own, 

Despite being turned and -

Twisted drastically against -

All obnoxious odds before,

Finally annihilating those -

Once ought to be immutable,

Walls of apathy that adorned -

My heart, mind and soul ;

Inevitably making my frowns,

To erupt into curves of -

Contentment much like,

The way I at last smiled -

Upon seeing those pleats,

Perfectly nestled on -

The fabric of my saree.

And oh my my, what could I say? 

For every glance of thy had -

Commenced to leave me,

At a loss to even put my finger -

On the kind of spell, you seemed,

To have spun around me,

Just like every time I rocked +

Back and forth on the threshold,

Of ecstasy upon having a simple -

Six yards of elegance,

Encompassing every inch of me. 

And often my love, 

My fingers remained cripplingly -

Clasped around that metallic latch,

Of my wardrobe shuddering as -

Its coldness pierced through,

My palms the moment -

I slammed it shut after cradling,

That selfsame saree in some -

Cranny of my arms. 

And often my love, 

I swaddled my skin with those -

Same old six yards of one saree -

Not in the quest to revel in grace,

But in the quest to revel in -

The resurgence of the remembrance,

Of that love of yours. 

And often my love, 

I sought you out there perhaps -

Somewhere along the loose ends, 

Of my saree, perhaps somewhere -

In the veneer of velvety warmth,

Fondling every fibre of my being, 

Perhaps somewhere midst those -

Meticulously tucked away pleats; 

And perhaps I did savour the love,

And all its banefully beloved -

Recollections profusely pulsating,

In the pits of my soul every time -

I draped a saree upon my body.