I remember when I first saw you in such a state, shifting with the direction of light, viola shaped, the boudoir door slightly ajar.
Rings exchanged, veil removed, the bells had chimed for us, and then for ships in safe harbor.
The pitter patter of surf cascading in from an open window, otherwise hushed, turnt and *****, dimples showing whether you smiled or not.
Turnabout was fair play --azure hues in moonlit pastel caressing the folds and ties around midnight’s chemise --the lure of velveteen and vast soft canvas of pearl --areolae circles and quaint triangles in the thick of things, gift-wrapped in elegant fur.
Belle-chose, under the waxing, waning crescent of dainty omphalos, yawning in chiaroscuro, red-faced and piqued, quite shy coming out of the shadows.
The batting of lashes, the lingering scent of bouquet --like the seduction of flute song, I followed and followed until thoroughly lost within you.