D10 My dearest India.

India has a way of looking ripe in the morning, of foretelling of some magical, chaotic adventure of which I have yet to see. Her eyes peer at you through the heat, dancing upon your body and building in your loins. She slithers in between the sun rays peering over the mountain peaks, journeying alongside the wind that brings her savory, dewy breath to my own.

Our lips, touching for the first time.

India in the morning.

What can lovers do but confess their love?

What can the sun do beyond burn brightly?

What can I do but marvel at the way you look at me?

India in the morning.

A sight worth savoring, worth the journey spanning the airways, over seas and oceans and through the mobs of children gathering at my waist.

Street cars filling the silence with clanks and shrieks and requests for pani puri.

But the stillness is palpable.

India. You’re right there.

I see you, the bare of your neck with the defined hair line, bronzing underneath the rising sun. I can see your eyes without looking.

No, no gum, I smile at the children, in a half-hurried tone.

And as you turn to see me, the street vendors suddenly vanish. The children pause as if in a movie. The chirping of the birds melts into silence and the dust settles around us like stardust. I’m held in your gaze.

A lone elephant adorned by her ancestors playfully lays her trunk on your shoulder, flower in tow.

Your eyes meet hers as we’ve all met before.

She nudges you forward and you fumble with grace before me.

Left foot mistakenly placed on top of mine.

Soft.

Sweet.

India.

[This is part of a 30 day, mostly comedic writing challenge entitled Advice For The End Of The World. Receive all 30 days of humor here: http://bit.ly/1oRW0Sj]