The tiny yellow leaves in his hair made me feel a strange tenderness for him. It created in me a strange desire to run my fingers through his hair and to experience an intimacy that beckoned me like a forbidden dream. This need hit me like a thunderstorm, the first time I had gazed deep into his eyes.
May be it was because he was waiting under the trees, may be because though he said he didn't wait much, but his eyes flickered with a strange delight when he heard my footsteps. It was as if he had missed me every moment of the weekend and his eyes might devour me with their hunger.
Every time, I looked into his eyes, it was as if I I could hear the roar of the thunderstorm. For me, whose ears long for his words, whose eyes thirst for his gaze, whose heart longs for his embrace, whose skin hungers for his touch, the reality steps in and mutters that it is enough to hear this roar of the thunderstorm every single day.
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