Love or Sex?

 Those kisses on the lips

and those curling of the tongue, 

as your finger progressed to strip-

the hook that had hidden my bosom for long, 

a jolt unplugged,

the years-long trauma associated with touch.

Entangled somewhere inside the heart

as your hands moved towards the path;

unexplored, untouched, unloved,

I could feel a pang of heat,

hear the rhythm of our heartbeat,

drenched on our moist,

emitting the faint smell of nicotine.

My heart shouted,

"Let's paint the canvas red"

"Bloody Red, without the threat of past and live in the moment."

Can I call this love?

Or, was it just a thirst,

an outcome of a few odds?

An act of making love

or an overtly glorified sex,

that just teased you out from a grave 

in which you were asked to act dead?