It was a warm night in Madrid,
when I met her.
She rounded the corner like a siren would the sea,
dripping and demanding
her legs long, level and silk
with hips like two half moons
sauntering in a way
only gypsies know.
Her fingers danced delicate ballets
and from the nail beds
poured boiled sugar, coiling the length of my spine.
Burnt cream in colour
like her body, her demeanor,
dark, wild hair framing darker, wilder eyes
hooded Venus orbs.
Her *** candied meteorites on my lip.