This loss of breath,
It’s wrong by design.
A same shallow escape;
A withdrawal into night
As if the stars had hands
That clutched at need, desire, worth.
In that moment, she looked tired but fulfilled,
Yet truth hung obvious to her
As a coat on a rack
Snow-flight drying
By a closed front door
Where he was absent
From entering.
The mirror showed a perfect dance
Of light and shadow
Over the stretched fineness
Of her high esteem
That again slid from her
As longing.
Her impeccable bones
The tenderness of the lines leading from neck to chest
And the exquisite lithe elegance of her arms
Her legs.
Caught in the glow
Of candle and wine
She appeared consumed
But sought full embrace,
Reverence,
The exhale of lips
Under the table,
The skirt.
It was the same look.
The same ache of the chest,
The limbs,
The sex.
Only here lived the lonely
Who were not alone
Sleeping under night
Instead of under passion.
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A collaboration with my friend Christine Hunt (@christinehunt76), a New England based actress and model that I am happy to see getting back to work. Her photo and edit, my words.
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