Charlie,

You were never mine to keep,
but oh  how your body fit beside mine like a forgotten verse.
We never called it love,
but our nights…
they were temples.

Not temples of prayer
but temples of moans, sweat, breath,
where we bowed to the fire of each other
and left god at the door.

For seven and half years,
you were not my friend who shared kisses,
but you were my confession booth,
my midnight scripture,
my thunderstorm when the world felt too neat.

You touched me like you already knew me
not from this life,
but from lifetimes ago,
when maybe we were lovers in a burning kingdom
that never survived the dawn.

We didn’t make promises.
We made echoes.
On tangled sheets.
On backseats.
On balconies where even the moon dared not look.

And when we lay there,
naked in both skin and honesty,
I saw the divine in you
not in purity, but in rawness.

Your lust wasn’t sin.
It was worship
fierce, messy, wild
but real.

I never married you
not because you weren’t enough… but because you were too eternal.
Too wild, too sacred, too free.
You were the kind of woman who belongs to no man  not even to love.

You were not a just a friend who moan.
You were a ritual.
A holy act performed in secret,
in between lifetimes.

And now,
when I think of you,
I don’t ache.
I burn
gently, like the memory of a sacred fire.

If I were Krishna
then you were my Radha in the shadows.
Not the queen of my palace,
but the queen of my storms.
We didn’t marry because what we shared was too vast for rituals
and too holy for paperwork.

Marriage is for settling.
You… were a fire.
I couldn’t settle a wildfire.
I could only stand in it
burn in it
and walk away, glowing.

Now,
when I think of you,
I don’t ache.
I burn
gently, like the memory of a sacred fire.

You will never be forgotten.
Because you were not an event.
You were an initiation.

You didn’t complete me.
You undressed me
not just of clothes, but of my illusions.

And that…
made you divine.