Said the ice cube to the drunk:

Until you reached for me,
we were the old cliché.

You:
faint,
solar,
spun outside your orbit,
star without system.

I:
cool,
polar,
consumed by my spirit,
terrorized by glass.

Until you reached for me:
No state, no reason;
no reason, no form;
one to another,
no pause, no surrender.

But then you reached for me,
crossed your heart
and hoped for me;

moved me,
rocked me,
tilted me;

kissed me,
licked me,
melted me.

Vinayak Varma, 2016

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