Curry Stains

I knew how hot it would feel,

amidst the late August sweat beads,

across your décolletage, almost a

teeming mecca of pilgrims.

They were bowing and listening

to the breeze as if they were there

splashing watery gravy with basil

 sprinkles, not knowing why.

I could see you an amidst these

dark green specks, floating

swimming against the current of time,

a golden rush of sunkissed goosebumps

across the nape, a thin strip of metal

laced like a thirsty dream for touch.

Your white dress got stains, turmeric

with olive oil as you tried

the hot steaming froth of what

I called a reason to have you over,

or perhaps an excuse, a buoy in a sea,

the orbs of the night’s glistening eyes

in awe with you being there with me,

soluble almost two beings in one,

in this blissful moment of mixture.