Tuesday, December 4, 2018

Raja Chakraborty writes


The Kiss :

The brush caressed the canvas,
albeit furtively and drew a kiss
across the blood red lips.


Smell of fresh paint hung in the
air. And of lust. Heavy in it’s laboured
breathing.


The canvas returned the favour,
coming to life in the haze of an
unfinished dream. Frozen.








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