Answering in Graphic Detail

You ask me what do I want from you,

I want you to count the number of unfoldings it takes
the next time you wear a saree,
and half-consider my request to stand under the shower
before smirking and calling yourself silly.
I want to trace poems in the small of your back
and have my fingers make you sing them,
have your fingers shout into my back
when words are too embarrassed to carry your messages.
I want you to wear dupattas like tarpaulins
until they hide all evidence of my exploits,
their pomegranate shades peek from the hem of your dress,
Will you remember falling above me
and call it reason enough to bruise?
I want you to open emails at work
and remember my tongue on your thighs,
your warmth will have nothing to do
with an overheating laptop,
I want you to know the elastic of your underwear,
how it stretches and folds when half-removed at your shins
and all its pillars are trembling masses,
You will not remember the trembling, no,
I want you to budget for clothes every time you visit me --
anticipate a torn kurti every now and then,
I want you to tell me that you did not know
that French Kisses were not meant for lips,
my breath will light your way into darkness,
that moment when the universe was born,
you will find God in my ministrations,
I want your salvation,
I want you to want it all like the three seconds
that purchased my flesh with murderous intent,
I carry those scars as an instruction manual
and I know that you don't need it.
That's what I want.
I want you to write on me
like I am the last thing that will be ever written,
the last thing to be read,
the last thing to be touched,
the only thing that will be remembered.