I.
I sit.
I sit still.
I sit, still trying to convey her softness.
I try to think of what her skin is like,
and no words will come to mind.
Perhaps this is because
I do not like it when I like her,
when I let myself go,
when I let my eyes slide down her neck
and fix themselves on the shadowed pocket
between her breasts.

To say her skin is flawless
would be to give in to cliché,
despite the truth of the thought.
The trite commonness of the description
makes me shudder, but it’s true:
to touch, you’d know no blemish
ever left its mark upon her,
no scar interrupts the sweet, smooth
plane of her skin. Her shoulders
round and plump at the perfect places,
and to put fingers to her back is ecstasy.

She is small and she moves with music
like no nymph I’ve ever heard of.
Her hips move with a rhythm cast and spun into the air,
her eyes close dreamily, and she hovers there.
And I have seen her kiss, her soft lips
delicately engaged with another pair,
and I have thought, “If only it were I.”

I...
I sit.
I sit still.
I sit, still trying to forget her softness.
I try to forget what her skin is like,
but no memories leave my mind.
I want to forget because
I do not like it when I like her,
when I let myself go,
when I let my eyes slide down her neck
and fix themselves on the shadowed pocket
between her breasts,
where the skin, I know, is smooth and warm,
and where I will never be allowed to go.

04/21/2004

Posted on 04/22/2004
Copyright © 2024 Devon E Mattys