A gift she bids me wear till night.
At dusk, I'll brush her silken hair,
And place them 'round her throat so white.
All day, my thoughts on her remain,
In yellow rooms where gowns are lain.
She contemplates in languid grace,
Which dress to don beneath the light.
She fans herself while I endure,
Each pearl absorbs my warmth in flight.
The rope lies slack upon my skin,
A silent bond, a secret sin.
She’s beautiful, I dream of her,
In attic rooms where shadows creep.
I picture men who hold her close,
While underneath, my secrets sleep.
Her French perfume masks what I leave,
A scent so faint, she can't perceive.
With rabbit’s foot, I dust her skin,
And watch her blush, a soft sigh grows.
In mirrors, lips of crimson part,
As if I speak of what she knows.
The pearls she wears, I give with care,
Her beauty woven in their glare.
Full moon, she comes, her carriage near,
I see her moves, each silent grace.
Undressing slow, her jewels fall,
Her slender hand retrieves their case.
She slips to bed, as always done,
While I lie restless, feeling none.
Her pearls now cool where she sleeps still,
But in their absence, I ignite.
I burn with thoughts of what we share,
Of jewels worn in velvet night.
For though she sleeps, her pearls remain,
A tie that binds us—soft, yet plain.
Imran Nazeer
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