The pen on my hands, as she strutted through my open door...
Her hair, black, free flowing as it filled her shoulder on one side, like a river
Flowing down to her chest.
Her dress, red, betraying the shy but passionate model she is...
As she gazed into my eyes, like she was seeking an answer...
The pen on my hand.
With one effortless pull of the strings on her dress, it slowly fell to the ground.
A master piece.
The Work of Art wondrous than the Babel Towers she was...
Slowly she lay on the couch...with a pose that froze my flow.
I couldn’t sketch a mark...
The pen on my hand.
I could feel the pull, from her seat to my aisle...
For a moment, I felt her breathe, and mine indrawn as her fingers stroked my hand...
Her left arm passed through my t shirt, goosebumps, chills...
All over my body.
Her black eyes, staring at my canvas, as if to see the sketch...
Then with a voice, softly whispered “I like it.”
I blink, then only do I realise,
She was right in front of me, as always, on the couch, with a pose
And my canvas had these words on it instead....
The pen, on my hand.
©The Unspoken