This is a short story\poem about a male who finds a female in the middle of a volatile protest. He hadn't been exposed to real world problems yet and She was lost in them. He needed Her so He could grow up and She needed him to remind her that Sh...
When the joy of the Act settled in and warmed the air, the Young lay there in clumps of complexions. Hearts racing against each other seemed pointless but necessary if breaths were to be captured and the tale retold one day. Droplets of His sweat stilled sucked at her breast like leeches, Her moisture quenching the sheet's thirst. The Man said farewell to his virginity in a sigh of relief but laid their as if afraid to move. His head resting inches from hers, He wondered if he should look at her. For some strange reason he felt guilty as if he tricked her into the collision of bliss. He did dare to turn to Her and sure enough she already had him in her gaze.
Candace: Where is your mind at right now?
The Man: In here. Where's yours?
Candace: Out there...
Under the blades of moonlight pouring in through those giant windows, the highlight of Her silhouette contorted with the shifting of her body. She dug a bungalow in the mass of his chest and softly swept her dry lips against his hairless press. Pistachio and rum flooded his nostrils and his Flower sent windstorms from her tongue. Her slight form was Gouda colored and French model petite, Her breast too big for their swimsuits. The scene stole the ache from his brain and he just enjoyed Candace. He kissed her on the forehead then, squeezing his Masterpiece for every stroke that brought Her colors to life.
And then the hair...
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That glorious hair! Perfectly matching Her eyes as if wed by Van Gogh himself. It was a fuzzy globe that nested on her skull and incubated her eyebrows. The tangled mess reeked of something cinnamon and smoked, lighting his nostrils and fumigating his senses. An afro stolen by Anglo-Saxons and given to this chalky and brown Beauty to mystify the untrained eye. The Man was such a novice at origin stories back then and couldn't fully comprehend what laid beside him. Juvenile instinct had brought him this far but betrayed him in this tender moment, for Helen Of Troy was buried in his person and all the doves that don't fly at night were buried in Her hair.
Then, as if gods on Mount Olympus suddenly meddled in the lives of Mankind again, she leaped from the bed and out of his arms. She fumbled around in the early evening dark and retrieved her twisted top. It slid down over her body like silk against a marble statue, the turtleneck stopping just above the split of her rear. Holding his eyes there, She walked towards the windows and their burgundy drapes. The Man, not knowing the motivation of mindful movements, took the time to tempt his appetite with delicious trays of optimism and flagons of future sin, shaken not stirred. Just her standing there with almost nothing on but the weight of the world, was enough to make Athena jealous of Atlas.
A dizzying display of luminous activity danced before her eyes as she studied the residue of the Protest she helped organized. Fire flew through the air and rolled into balls of blackness against piles of stolen goods from the cubes of commerce below. Each pile lit with it's own hue of yellowish flickers, mixed with orange and red swallowing singes of blue. Humanoid shapes scurried and darted into/and out of crevices, engaging and escaping the Badges who had multiplied and organized. Her pupils lathered and her lips hardened from the dryness of sex. Like a southern handheld church fan, She quivered with purpose. Her nudity was not visible to anyone else in the world except for the Man who wished her departure was shorter but did not call out to her. He instead freed himself of the sullied fabrics that still bore the results of their completion and went to her.
