Lavender and Leather

I Keep You

There are no words. This is no love letter. I'm plain as the arms of a million women, barely a breeze over your naked chest as you sleep. I'm on the other end the electric night, smoldering, stoked, waiting.

You and I will never see eye to eye.

But I still can't sleep at night.

There is the length of your smooth neck; but that's nothing special, except that it makes me want to live in its warmth, next to your voice, feeling the slow rhythm of your blood.

There is the plump of your bottom lip as your tongue slides over it, your thick hair through your own hands when it gets in the way, your fingers and what they have done. And what I imagine they could do. There is the way your face looks in the shadow of night, the hang of your shirt on your shoulders, the cut of your waist as the evening begins, the scent of the skin on your chest as it ends. But don't misunderstand.

This is no love letter.

Because this is not love.

This is deeper, fuller, harder, faster. Lust, infatuation, desire, culmination; all so heavy and delicately weaved by my own imagination, a sugar-spun, syrupy web of a dream that smells like the city and tastes of rock and sand and sea.

And you will never know.

Because this is where the million women fall, pale arms outstretched; this is where the breeze becomes the wind; this is where I own the lightning.

I keep you here, supple and malleable, at my fickle behest.