A little make-believe. Lighthearted, I suppose!
she
wore a lace top dress. her friend wore a jumpsuit. it seemed vague, by
complexion, by interior management. another, aside a gentleman, wore a halter
lace dress. I walked by. I was set to grab a bag, make a delivery, maybe swoop
a corner. I noticed, well, I asked, if the rug was Venetian, made in Venice,
something elegant, something Italian. (I was told indifference.) I saw an
incendiary woman, strolling with long strides, eudaemonia, right? the place we’ll
travel, touch, the pain we’ll cause. sumptuous sins, delightful transgression,
mental trespass. her name was Ariana—with an air, her neckline drifted, Turner
excellence, churned in a man’s belly. such scintilla anxiety, grabbed a palm,
cupped a hand, thrown against a wall, slippery as a swamp, a deep kiss, she ran—I
chased, so much torment, such radiant game, a man falls, he loves death, he
deprives his intellect—it shatters, it tries resuscitation, it fails, he is
left to his instincts—a woman loves instincts.
another
in velvet pants, another in a turtleneck, I search for one that made an egress.
a sequin top, black silk, a dirty/clean/seductive/priding gaze.
begging
sanity, wake the mess up, pledging insanity, another opportunity. she came
back, smiling over a laugh, I wore mere denims, cheap tennis shoes, she stared
at my stained loose t-shirt—all white. she was chic, glossy eyes, having fun.
