It was on one of those late, humid, uneventful nights,
the moist Florida breeze carrying the sweet aroma of society
gently into my nostrils.
Unbeknown was I, that such a fine pearl amongst
so many dull caricatures would captivate the eyes, the soul, the mind
of this sullen man.
"That's the one, fellas."
Her eyes; gentle irises wrapped in rich brown color,
her legs; boy, did I just about lose my wits, at this time,
having not felt such juvenile desires to kiss, caress, and feel in a long while,
her skin; soft as the satin sheets that encompass the bed
on which it would do me great pleasure to lay her upon
beside the ocean that is my dreams (what a pleasure!),
her hair; flowing like that very same ocean,
and what a dip I would take in that ocean with her!
Following my gawking and admiring and gazing and desiring,
it donned on me that she was without a partner, a man,
stuck up the river without a paddle, lost in the fog without a beacon;
'O! would I love to be that man,' methinks to myself.
I would dance with Lucifer himself, the Arch-Angel, in a flurry of sparks,
fire galloping, brimstone cracking beneath our feet; a race against time!
I would travel miles, kilometers, light years across the depths of space and time,
defying laws of physics, theories of relativity!
There would be epics written, films directed, and stories told for millenia
of this sullen man.
I envision legs wrapping, hands grabbing, clawing;
gentle melodies emanating from mouth.
Bodies intertwined, a combustion of our most primitive desires;
my name in her mouth, and hers in mine.
And boy, if I hadn't have seen her on that late, humid, uneventful night,
the opportunity would have passed me by, following the arrow of time,
and this sullen man would beat himself senseless,
and curse himself for being so oblivious,
and never forgive himself for not noticing,
and she would not be mine.
"That's the one, fellas; that's my girl."
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 12:38 PM UTC
It was on one of those late, humid, uneventful nights,
the moist Florida breeze carrying the sweet aroma of society
gently into my nostrils.
Unbeknown was I, that such a fine pearl amongst
so many dull caricatures would captivate the eyes, the soul, the mind
of this sullen man.
"That's the one, fellas."
Her eyes; gentle irises wrapped in rich brown color,
her legs; boy, did I just about lose my wits, at this time,
having not felt such juvenile desires to kiss, caress, and feel in a long while,
her skin; soft as the satin sheets that encompass the bed
on which it would do me great pleasure to lay her upon
beside the ocean that is my dreams (what a pleasure!),
her hair; flowing like that very same ocean,
and what a dip I would take in that ocean with her!
Following my gawking and admiring and gazing and desiring,
it donned on me that she was without a partner, a man,
stuck up the river without a paddle, lost in the fog without a beacon;
'O! would I love to be that man,' methinks to myself.
I would dance with Lucifer himself, the Arch-Angel, in a flurry of sparks,
fire galloping, brimstone cracking beneath our feet; a race against time!
I would travel miles, kilometers, light years across the depths of space and time,
defying laws of physics, theories of relativity!
There would be epics written, films directed, and stories told for millenia
of this sullen man.
I envision legs wrapping, hands grabbing, clawing;
gentle melodies emanating from mouth.
Bodies intertwined, a combustion of our most primitive desires;
my name in her mouth, and hers in mine.
And boy, if I hadn't have seen her on that late, humid, uneventful night,
the opportunity would have passed me by, following the arrow of time,
and this sullen man would beat himself senseless,
and curse himself for being so oblivious,
and never forgive himself for not noticing,
and she would not be mine.
"That's the one, fellas; that's my girl."