All alone in the
big brass bed
you wait.
You’re late, my love!
Your body craves,
shivers, aches
with unfulfilled desires.
Where are you, my love?
A door bangs
A shutter creaks
He has come.
You are the moon
He is the night
You shine in his darkness
Engulfed by his touch,
slave to the rhythm
of his dance.
Later, in the empty bed
You wonder:
Was he really here?
Two ruby red droplets
on your pillow.
The legacy of his love.
How her heart fluttered at the very thought of him. This beautiful, wonderful man: tall, dark and handsome with olive skin and deep, probing brown eyes. She couldn’t believe that he’d chosen her. Never had she been so truly, madly, deeply in love. Her life was perfect. Complete.
Cliché after cliché toppled her reason. He lit up her world; he made the sunshine brighter, made her weak at the knees with a look. He made the earth move for her. Naughtily, especially with that tongue of his. She blushed at the thought. With total abandon he’d loved her and she’d loved him back. She’d explored every nook and cranny of his gorgeous, lithe, strong-limbed body. Felt the warmth of his breath, the strength of his heartbeat. The intimate tingle, that lingering consummation, together so perfectly ravished.
He was her perfect hero.
Such a shame she had only made him up.
