In the dead of night, I waken, or think I do, seeing her
shape, I think, hovering over me, a spirit I dream of often even after all this
time, lips so red I suspect she has dipped them in blood, maybe mine, with
fingernails to match as if in the throes of passion, she has scratched my chest,
my face or back.
I see, I think, her dressed in white, a sprite, whose open
buttons show the bulge of her breasts, that slope over, which I run my fingers
over them, or tongue, pinching the typs until stiff enough for me to sip.
I do not recall the flavor, only the texture on my tongue,
rippled like gravel except for the very sip which my lips encircle, be this
dream or not, I still live it, waking to the illusion that it might just be
real.
No comments:
Post a Comment