I have a lover. She ignites my thoughts and burns my heart with the wild, exotic promise of a first taste. A fresh kiss.
Her name is India. We have never met.
I see her though, dark haired and laughing, swirling in color. Inviting. Tempting. “Come” she says, “I will show you wonders you have never seen. Teach you things you have never learned. Bring forth that which you have never felt. I… will show you…your heart.”
It’s too much to resist.
Let your guard down for one second, turn your back or doze in her arms, then, with no remorse for sleeping in your bed, she will hold a knife to your throat, take all your money, and have only contempt for you, that you let her do it.
That is my India, built of rumor and story.
It used to be different. When I heard of her, I felt courage slip away and I became less. She was to be approached with reserve, if approached at all. But then, story upon story unfolded and I began to see that those who hate her, and one does either love her or hate her it seems, those that hate her never really partake. Her freedom, to them, is chaos. Her offenses, grave. Carrying their own world in a tight embrace, they slog along in hers. But, those willing to walk unabashed into what is Her, her essence, her unique form of fun or knowledge, suffering or living – those people become mesmerized, stay captivated and have their love returned to them, in time.
I want to be one of those.

All this is romantic conjecture of course. As I said, we’ve never met. But, today is the day. I wait with expectation, looking only forward.
India is my lover. Until I get to know her. Then, we will see.