Friday, September 13, 2013


She likes to feel the slow swell of freedom from the source.
Flooding from the spout to drown the day, hot vapors swirl overhead, clinging to quiet lips and settling into ghostly shadows on the glass. Flushed thighs demarcate a vulnerable shade of pink and she slips her toes beneath the tumbling heat

thankful to be alone.

Hooded eyes are cloaked with careless smudges of this morning's mascara but she does not bother. Legs slide against one another, smiling because they are smooth. Fitzgerald propped on the seat (desperate to be devoured) - but languid arms are heavy.

And when this rescue burns cold, it is cast into a scientific spiral of pity and lavender, recklessly slurping and sucking as she stands - it is gone. Saturated foot prints soaking into the hardwood prove that this sort of solitude is fleeting.