She is silhouetted.
I watch. She carelessly unbuttons.
Could she hear the beating of my heart?
Does she feel my desire…my hunger?
Can she perceive my regret?
The shadows hide me.
I wrap them around me like a warm coat.
She looks, but she cannot see.
Pushing downward, they lay lifeless and inert.
I watch. She sinuously unzips.
Oh, are they dead things now?
When she wore them weren’t they vibrant, living artisans?
Didn’t they sculpt as if she were a work of art?
My hands clasp as I gaze upon her flawlessness.
Almost as if it were possible for me to pray.
No. I no longer pray.
She reaches behind her.
I watch. She brazenly unclasps.
Would I survive being that silk delicacy?
Dare I risk the honor of dwelling on her breasts?
Could I handle the obligation of restraining her impertinence?
My hands now become fists.
My anger flares at the tragedy of anyone else being near her.
This faultless form should be mine alone.
She slips her fingers under.
I watch. She eases them downward.
How can she perform this Herculean feat that would slay mortal men?
By what right do I dare gaze upon the pure contour of her hips?
Can I bear it as they break free and fall onto the floor?
I view the supreme perfection of her form.
She is my everything and I am, and always shall be, her shadow.
To her I am nothing.
She is silhouetted.
I watch. She takes the offered hand.
Could I hear the beating of her heart?
Do I feel her desire…her hunger?
Can I perceive her regret?
