The rope was not rope, it was not a prop, it was not even a way of holding her in place.
It was a memory.
A memento of his touch, of the strength that transferred from him to her as he wrapped her in the rope.
It held a power far beyond the twisted fibres that made up the coils against her skin.
It retained the memory of him, the shadow of his movements, of his grace as he passed the rope across her body.
Each slow, purposeful twist of its length wrapped around her reinforced that memory.
Just the touch of it now ignited her body, her senses. He wasn’t there but she could wrap herself in his memory, holding her tight, safe.
Now she understood.
Understood why he took such care as he placed each twist and turn of the rope against her body,
Now she understood why he would take as much care, almost reverence, removing the coils from her body,
Now she understood why he had left the rope with her, why he had placed it in her hands, wrapped her fingers around it as he left.
He understood it was more than rope.
It was his gift to her, his affection, his memory.
She closes her eyes again and runs her fingers over the coils, remembering.
Words By The Dirty Romantic
