Maybe she will insist that you kill the lights. Her presence and her shape more alluring, without sight to aid your navigation, you reach for her..you smell vanilla, you feel her warmth. She crosses her arms, grasping the bottom seam of her shirt. She lifts it, as if it were a surrender And she puts one foot forward, her hip at an advantage, an angle sure to catch your grasp. Hers is the only smell. You undo your leather belt, the other hand navigates her ribs, grips her throat and eventually you invite a finger to trace her lips. Playfully, she kisses back and grips your palm as you discard the remains of your designer suit. She traces on you with her mouth, the Italian tailor made ensemble rests in heaps now. Maybe at this point, she is sobering up. Still, you are handsome, and she isnt threatened. She lets you lift her from the floor and carry her to the bed. She lets you live your lie. She has no clue yet That your are, in fact, wed. At some point she restores some light and begins to pull the lace back up from floor, to ankle, past knees, until it rests on her hips.. She catches a glimps Of your wedding band. And she hurries out. Leaving in turmoil. You beg her to stay and to listen. You are pulling at her clothes kissing her as if it would help. She runs In the snow. In the dark. In the realm that surrounds me. Maybe, she felt sick guilty Although she did not know. Maybe she felt used Maybe she felt pretty until she learned that she always ends up the one chasing her own shadow home. Maybe he called her consistently Maybe she cussed. And maybe Im her.
Posted on: Tue, 12 Nov 2013 12:03:14 +0000