The smoke of his cigarette fills the air,
I lay there, he's right beside -
Talking of his work and I whine about school,
He's older but I don't care.

He graduated college last summer,
We met at the family party ;
I felt it, the tinge of his sensual lips:
He was homesick, so I became his yonder shelter.

Every afternoon, he came over -
Touching my neck with his lips, he whispered -
"What's making you so precious?"
"You," I scream, as he kept his raids on.

It was the summer of the '90s,
He took me on a drive,
There, he said it out loud ;
"Be my princess," I agreed.

He's tall, six feet et cetera inches,
To him, I'd just be another paper castle to bend and break,
But he still brushes my dress aside,
every single night.

He'd wrap around those arms,
Got me the books I'd need,
To the horizon, we ran on late evenings,
His fingertips are endured in an unknown history.

Flicking away my tears,
He said, "We'd be alright."
They wouldn't take me and him,
They think I'm innocent enough for him to look in,
I still play with playhouses and dolls ;
I still collect shells and watch retro movies.

He never liked my dolls,
He hated me for my childishness,
So, he ripped apart all my Barbie's -
When, one fine summer's afternoon,
he undressed me to peek at my soul.

                                 - Anurima Mukherjee

P.S. - A contradictory story of an age-gap love affair. Here, innocence and maturity are intended to flourish in two ways, love and disconnectivity from the society's tight grip.

My entry for cheapxmedicine 's second edition of the "Wizzwrite Awards".