A
fallen Shoe
Seated.
Silent. Still you watch me. Your eyes flow along the curve of my ankle.
I see within them, what you do not speak. I can taste the scent of your
desire. Words form in paragraphs of introduction, then are abandoned
as my fingers caress my calve. The dangling shoe falls to the floor, you
all but flinch at the sound. No movement. No beckoning, unless it is by
the cock of your jaw or the pregnant space that seperates your palm...
from my thigh.
The
guise is set. I reach down to retreive the fallen shoe. A crystal pearched
on a thin wire of gold nestles itself comfortably in the softness you are
suddenly intimately introduced to. Seperations are now chasms to forray
as the voice paints itself onto your nerves and sinews. A sirens song,
is a 'hello'. : The advantage lost willingly, then innocently sought to
regain. Scented wrists bent forward when, fingers cradle clavicle right
then. Thinnest gold, encircling the ankle, brushes against the knight errant's
skin. A curl of deepest rust falls victim to the bent shoulder of your
succor, closeness invents bravery, intimacy of strangers electrified then.
The
toe is not content to become a captive once more. Slowly as eyes stray,
it traces the inside of your wrist, pushing buttons while the curl claims
its prize. Locked now without chains, the wanton curl dresses your bicep
in her brazen caress. Softly the scent deepens, humanity's joining call
succulently engraves the invitation for your closeness. Signals welcome
you, with a tremble of a finger resting against your shoulder, or a quiver
of a lip, offering a thank you, even the deepening timbre, of an already
angora muse. Lips are full, sweet. The warmth radiates into his mouth as
liquid being poured. The hair caresses each nerve and like a general, calls
them to rapt attention.
Pulse.
Rhythm. Each pounding of your own heart is in perfect symetry of mine.
Womanly curves slip into the puzzle pieces of your body, and the moment
is found with nothing wanting. The shoe falls to the floor once more. .
.
