Remember those nights when we would cuddle and sleep, and slowly, my fingers would crawl up your back and pick those myriad constellations of scabs on your skin. My nightly scratch card. I'd not give up until your shoulders were smoothened, no hints whatsoever of blots of dead-skin that previously resided there. You'd hold me tighter and whisper, "You're my loofah."

You still cuddle and sleep with the sophisticated men, sporting stubbles and Gandhi glasses, that you meet at your left-sympathizing university. Their intellect provokes your mind, their humour tickles your bones but their hands evade your back after a brief encounter. They prefer going elsewhere, where there's pleasure but no promise. Spent, their fingers return and run through your back. Feeble touch. They hesitantly complain to you of your rough skin. Like a cheek with acne. You shrug and say, as if it were a legit excuse, "I have lost my loofah."

- हर्ष स्नेहांशु