Soft supple like a new babe’s bottom
the contours of your waist feels to my touch.
No sharp angle, no jutting sword
that springs out at you while you duel and jaunt
Round and shapely like a graceful pear
the curves of your hips call out to me in sight.
No box of secret, just a woman’s tale that wish-washes
when she walks seducing my eyes and the coils of my soul.
Strong and mighty like am amazon princesses,
the swift moves of your legs mesmerise the inner sanctum of my mind
No stilts of wood, just flesh and glory
that makes a manhood jolt as heels add to the magnificence of these two combined.
A marvel of the true world, a figure of 8,
the epitome of an hourglass slinking through time
to capture a life worth living, knowing and savouring
like expensive wine of a distinguished time.
Tears Over Coffee
Part I of Kinship of Spirit
The door bell rang. Miths made her way through her apartment’s living area, towards the door, and looked through the peep hole. She saw a familiar head of hair, looking downwards. The curls were slightly visible, she knew who that was. Christy.
She unbolted the door, opened it and held it slighty ajar with her hand on the inside knob. Christy raised her head, at the suddenness of the door opening. She stood there, in her jeans, button down shirt, heels and the over-sized handbag she lugged around with her. She looked as if she’d gotten there in a hurry. She had forgotten to apply her coat of lip gloss, something she always does, though she’d forgotten it now. Miths slowly looked at her watch. It was past 1 o’clock. “Wasn’t she supposed to be at work?”, she thought.