History Of My Love Poem by Somendra Gaur

With fork we fought for the last piece of desert on the plate,
I won,
And she ate it everytime.
The golden streaks of her hair,
Around the semi-circumfrence of her face,
I've lost on purpose,
And she knew.
Calling her fat,
Or the fragrance of attar around her neck,
Her nose with often turned red,
like wine.
Rubbing my nose against it.
Sweeping her from her feet,
And squashing her into the mattress,
Then her slow-mo punches on my face,
Listening to our favourite songs,
On drives.
She took it all away,
My T-shirts, heart, fights and me.