Naked

...Mera naam ishq, tera naam ishq...

The melody, a powerful, but not dominating presence in the background, as I stepped in, bare, but clothed with unstrung thoughts and the heavy ornamentation of feeling. In the bath.

There is something about the sensation of water on bare skin.
Of the wetness, the coldness, the hotness. The very essence of water. On the basic covering of human existence.
Standing under the shower, with the water falling steadily but gently on the weighty head, the shock of the cold, the goose bumps racing across my body, as the cold slowly gave way to the warm, then the hot and dangerously edging towards the scalding.

There is something about the sensation of water on bare skin.
A garment woven across the skin, a ribbon, not as decoration or as ostentation, but as an ornament on a nude. A beauty that does not dominate, but reveals and revels on the beauty of the soul it is adorned on.

There is something about the sensation of water on bare skin.
Not purgation.
Not passion.
Not peace.
It is a submission, to the moment.
The closed eyes as your mind gropes your flesh, feels the trickles of threaded water down  your back, down your belly, down your thighs, down towards a bare nothing.

It is a state of humanly divine wakefulness.

For once your flesh is the object of your pure attention. Not for masturbation, but for a quiet introspection: this is mine; this feeling is mine; this body is mine.

There is something about the sensation of water on bare skin.

Which does not throw me in a thrall, but makes me want to bare, and bare it all, again and again, to feel my flesh tingle and my soul submerge, in the breath and life of the steamy, misty bathroom.

A metaphorical ideation of the present.