For a sick person like me, she is the medicine.

The medicine in the form of water, when we’re sitting in front of the ocean, together.

The medicine in the form of breath, her slow, deep breaths turning into sleep in my arms.

The medicine in the form of silence, when we are talking through our eyes, or signals, or the little runs before she jumps on me.

The medicine in the form of gratitude, the gratitude for her feminine. For her cooking, for her making this place a home, for the incense and the candles, and the cakes and the books.

The medicine in the form of touch, her embrace, all over. Her kisses, my kisses, her hands and her thighs and her neck and her lips. The healing kisses.

I’m pretty sure I’ll turn into a maniac living without my medicine all these days.

Finally, the medicine in the form of meeting her again. I experienced it in Rome, In Naples, and I’m excited that it will be in Lucknow next time. The best medicine of them all. Her sparkling eyes when we meet after a long time.

I’ll miss you little one.
I’ll always love you.
Always.