Connoisseur.

The token of feelings vary. From the apt situations to the bamboozling lies. The taste varies all the same.
Today while walking under the arch portals of the Oberoi Grand, Kolkata with my friend Kanad Banerjee, a few lines did touch my heart like a flutter of land bound moisture laden clouds from the Bay. ".... I would manage to live through eterny with the smell of her hair, the touch of her hands and the kiss of her lips....", the cool North Westernly blew across our face, fluttering the soft linen around my ever growing waistline.
Campering through the streets, trying to regain the lost grounds, I made my way to the dry hive trying to recollect back some honey...
I hurried up the stairs.... the extruding sweat moved across the arch of my brows. It moistened the curl when suddenly the thunder struck followed by silence.... interrupted by the frequent taps of the water drops into the empty bucket.... The fan kept it's pace, and then the bossom of the dry earth quenced it's six month awaited thirst.... and the thunder struck twelve....