It wasn't the overwhelming fragrance of mogra 

Adorning her hair

It wasn't' the sight of her curvaceous waist

That kindled my fire 

It was the peekaboo of her white bra

On her black blouse

Which ignited my senses

The flimsiness of the fabric couldn't camouflage the contradiction of her shades

We were standing in a queue at the grocery counter 

Stealthily I raised my hand to touch her

I missed the opportunity as she moved forward

It was one my closest call from being a molester.

©LR