She is there, I can smell her still.
Her magnificent fragrance spins me, senses swirl.
Memory and colors blend, bent on recapture
Of the moment when, that knock at the door.
She stood there in her virginal white bodice
Framed against the black night with winter cold upon us.
“Come in,” I invited. In truth, what more could be said.
In truth, the excitement was taking over my spinning head.
As she moved to the settee there was no missing the lacing crosses adorning her back.
Absurd notion those white silk ribbons would serve as protectors of predatory attack.
“A glass of wine, Love?” A musing. A distraction.
Resistance of the inevitable. A heated carnal action.
And the passions do rise, hand upon thigh.
Coy played expressions; the spark in her eye.
By my breath, I’d give everything to taste those lips.
Say something clever, lest away the potential moment slips.
And there it is- The press. The attraction. The meld.
Hands flutter greedily, teeth nip, loins swell.
“Five minutes of conversation trump the short-comings of my face”, Voltaire did rant.
Five minutes from glimpsing that prettily caged back, those ribbons never stood a chance.