She takes him down from the paisley
patterned wall to lean him in her arms.
Air crisp and ghostly, spirited with life,
creaking floorboards and memories
sauntering room to room like they own the place—
which, she supposes, they do now.
In her hands, he is soft and smooth,
just as in childhood, when she would draw
fingertips across his freshly shaven cheek.
And then, he bathrobed and she pajamaed,
stepping out into the crushed blue
hue of dawn rising, genesis in circles
traced across the carpeted floor.
And then, the baseline scent of leather,
of rich oils and musk, ambergris and civet
and birch wood, bring her back to turning,
turning, gently with him
crushed like velvet in her arms.
|"Dancing Alone" by Jordi V. Pou (Flickr)|