He loved when she wore red–
against all that milky skin– the way she seemed to spill,
even when she was barely moving at all, it
drew him in
like her lips, red like still fresh blood
and sweeter than iron.
If her kiss were anything like her walk,
her gaze,
like the way her smell enveloped him as she pushed him
past the point of begging,
sweet merciful ___!
He went mad with imagining
the moment their lips would touch,
painted the moment a thousand different ways in his head, finally
painting his own lips
gazing into the mirror,
he stood the way she stood.
At first he was quite still, then–as she was nothing but movement–
he performed a small wiggle.
But the dress wasn’t quite the same fit, his shoulders a bit broad for it.
So he leaned in,
offering a little swish, practicing a slight wave.
He smiled her smile and
stood on his toes, higher and higher and
quite loved the effect.
He leaned in,
and let his eyelids drop until
his dark lashes nearly swept his cheek, the way hers did
then he looked up
suddenly
with a breath that parted his lips
forming a soft, perfect
O
that fogged the glass
as he leaned in
for his kiss.
