Dearest Love,

Dearest love,

I think of you as I rest my tired feet and unquenched heart, while sitting below a tree of young pink flowers, relishing the winter sunlight that warms the coldest crevices of my rambling scrawling soul. There is an unwrinkled tremor of hope in the moment i wish to capture in this postcard and pass on to you – a moment born from the realization of being at the right place at the right time. And as the ink of my words securely attaches itself to this paper, a gracious flower descends from an overhead branch and pinks my cheeks artlessly – a chaste pink that blooms in the breast of a virgin, a piquant pink that rests at the base of an unrequited rose, a lilting pink that overwhelms the skies surrounding this mesmerizing city. From the city of Jaipur, I ask only this – I ask of Jaipur to either veil itself, its beauty and glory like the women of olden times OR to undrape me, unleash me from the shackles of skin, to crush me in an embrace of impulsive passion and meld me in its divine fragrance.
I think of you.



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