the fragrance of distilled lavender and anise rival
ripe plums and cherry-picked pinch
a sprig of rosemary and touch of juniper, slipped away thyme and glossed gaze on
parallel paced heartbeats
through sheer lace and hot skin
glazed with buttermilk and honeycomb
entrenched in the ghosting of fingertips on throat
relished in a touch's remnant mirrored of eternal redwood
deepest ruffles of gilded silk richer than darkest cacao
hoisted above hips fitted perfectly into a cupped palm
accompaniment of crescent marks bitten into bittersweet apricot
slashed valance whose wrinkles resemble torn petals
from neck's nape to rosehip
suckled dandelion stem and nectar indulgence akin to avarice
breathed words strung through thick air
echoed to morning mist drapes
where the taste of sharp citrus tang
and palm-mapled spearmint
still lingers on my lips.
She made a wonderful meal.
Anything she did was flawless in my eyes.
For breakfast: a perfect sunny-side up, blueberry cream-cheese bagel (untoasted for me, practically burnt to a crisp for her), her bacon and my yogurt.
"Kiss The Cook" apron and my hands around her waist.
She rubs at her neck too often while we eat. The foundation smears from her wandering fingers. Cerise marks. Curling iron mishap.
For lunch: lazy Saturdays spent at home. Grilled cheese sandwiches with canned tomato soup. Better than it sounds.
Netflix plays in the background while we're just immersed in each other's silent company. Soda cans by the couch. My fingertips rub against her knuckles absentmindedly. Her knees bounce restlessly on top of mine. Eyes wandering from the TV.
For dinner: Tuesday night. Coming home early from a business trip. Lit candles on silk tablecloth. A bottle of wine, uncorked, and half-full glasses. Lipstick marks on both.
Noise from the bedroom. peek. Surprise and yell and cry and Run.
Her lover gets away but she isnt so lucky. Not at all lucky
struggle try To run run run as f ast as you Can
You cant too slow go tcha
what to do what to do what to do
hes back i Tho ught he was gone but hes not hes not hes back.
Louder than ever. Taking control. Smooth and rich like crushed velvet drowned in cacao.
Her pleas are pointless. Lost in the sound of rushing blood in my ears. We're back in the kitchen. She says she loves me, she really does. She doesn't know she's talking to someone different now.
The knives in their rack glimmer. Entirely stainless steel, and the moon glints off their reflective handles. Silver muted by scarlet.
She ruins the tranquil night.
My veins rush with adrenaline as I pace my breath. My stomach rumbles with hunger, a nine-hour flight home followed by strenuous physical activity taking its toll.
I frown. The cabinets and refrigerator are devoid of the canned food and microwave meals he usually kept stocked. She's still, body staining the floor. Soft skin and warm flesh ripe for the taking.
My lips curl at the idea. I turn the stove on and grip the knife. She doesn't make a sound when I cut carefully into her. She can't make a sound. But there was one thing she did make for the very last time.
She made a wonderful meal.