ANIMALS (wlw)

Standing before the expansive French window that reaches nearly to the ceiling, a woman exudes an air of intrigue. The shadows of night envelop the upper portion of her face, leaving only the lower half illuminated, where her naturally flushed, nude-coloured lips meet the glass of a rock glass. A soft, haunting melody fills the room, its notes swirling like smoke in the air.

Her left hand slips casually into a pocket of her pants, whilst she leans effortlessly against her desk, her long, inky raven hair cascading down her shoulder like a silken waterfall. It contrasts beautifully with the sleek angularity of the room. Turning slightly, she places the glass on the table to her right, her fingertips delicately tracing the rim in a slow, circular motion, as if conjuring thoughts both dangerous and divine. The tension in the room hums like a live wire, a thrilling prelude to what might come next.

To her, the intricate dance of power and strategy is what truly defines the struggle for dominance.
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She was young and I was young.

I observed her. I analysed her. I memorised her.

From the little breach in her keyhole to her cracked stained old window, seeing her delicate figure dance and whirl flawlessly in her small apartment, embracing herself with closed eyelids whilst humming a song.

She was carefree, whilst I was caged. A totty-all-colours girl with a winsome smile and a venture girl with empty eyes.

The tuberosa in my paradise, The Psalm that echoes in the still of the night, The Calypso in the sea of my judgement.

Tell me, sweetheart

How can you stare deep into the Punisher's eyes?
How could I draw nearer you when you're covered with thorns?
How can I soak up your deepest and purest warmth when I'm lying inside the iron casket?

I am not possesive.
I am not obsessed.

Yet, for some inexplicable reason, I found myself unable to resist the urge to smell her scent. The forbidden allure of Eve's Apple on my soiled palm.