⏰ Dawn 🌸 harsingar on wet grass 💋 and Priya already at the gate

About me

Five thirty in the morning and I am already outside, barefoot. The harsingar tree has dropped its flowers on the wet grass overnight. White petals, orange stems, a whole carpet of them 🌸. Six. I have a steel plate full of harsingar, picked one by one off the ground. My knees are damp from kneeling in the grass. The colony is still asleep, not one gate open. Six twenty. You message that you are outside. I come to the gate in an old cotton kurta, with orange stains on every fingertip and sleep still in my eyes 😇. Six thirty. I sit you down on the cane chair and tip the whole plate of harsingar over your head. Petals in your hair, on your collar, in your lap. You look ridiculous and I kiss you anyway 💋. Six forty-five. The orange from the stems rubs off on your neck wherever my mouth goes. I leave a trail of tiny stains going down, one kiss for every flower. You stop looking ridiculous. Seven. Back inside, curtains still drawn. I crush a handful of harsingar between my palms and press it to your chest while I ride you, gentle at first. By the second handful of harsingar there is nothing gentle left 🔥. Seven thirty. The plate is empty and the bedsheet is covered in white and orange. There are harsingar petals in places nobody will ever find them. I am shaking and laughing into your neck at the same time. Eight. You slip out before the colony wakes. That tree drops a fresh carpet every single night, babe. So call me the evening before, and I either leave the gate unlatched or carry a plateful of harsingar to wherever you wake up 📞.

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