Love Letter

Venetian wineglass reds and baked, love letter greige appear in photographic Vermeer splendor. Within gilt framework, a British rose is lined with mink lanugo and peanut butter and jelly umbras. Clothing litters the floor.

Pillow soft suedes of buff and bisque wrap round buttery dulce de leche integument; cakey stomach grades into chiffon breasts; cream puff mammeries taper into whipped mousse nipples. Dormouse hued areolas, cut from upcycled raw silk ballet slippers, are soft to the glistening tongue; saliva sak√© on satin. 

Amaretto almond liqueur sluices over velvet rope thighs; between the sex lines is a swollen cherry cordial; it’s suspended in cloudy honeycomb amber, wrapped within a lace g-string; a pearl of antique black truffle rests in a rustic mons clamshell of espresso semi sweet chocolate. 

The aubergine tint in the coital smell of lightly mussed linens; the mauve in sensual leather and vanilla musk; the clitoral wetness in petrichor and Dolce&Gabbana light blue: these smells show tangled sounds in human paint at bed ‘n’ breakfast noon.

Friends Make The Best ValentinesūüíĚ

Roseate curtains of heavy, crushed velvet wend sinuously, revealing a glossy silk lining colored like milk; the gem tinctured fabric frames a large bay window.

Billows of cashmere drape over a window sill seat: it’s upholstered in a syrupy-thick, plush material. I run my fingers over the burnished gold fuzz, leaving an ocean of soft, smoky ripples in the cloth. Every secret touch leaves a ghost here by the large beach facing window.

All around, on hard surfaces, fairy lights (held up by the sorcery of copper wire) spin their infinitesimal, glittering turbines in the indoor twilight. Long, dripping, cylindrical wax candles marry short rotund tealights in the dark. 

A large, aromatic, three wicked candle gives off rich, complex spices; firelit tendrils of floating, silvery smoke invoke a bronzed vegetable garden overrun with thick ivy vines and luscious, mottled orange and white goards.

I recline on the decadent sill seat, taking in surroundings that are frosted with a thick meringue of visual cholesterol. Egg whites tip ombre flames of cinnamon and auburn in the fireplace. I listen to the perfumed apple tree firewood pop and whizz.

On the cedar table there are: matching flutes of champagne; a crystal tumbler of seven year old cherry wine wrapped in a filmy red g-string; a heart shaped box of whiskey infused German chocolates, with several chocolates bitten and painted in dark semicircles of lipstick; and two large, deep China plates filled with Cajun spiced lobster and chicken pasta.

Steam rises from the plates; the food was just taken off of the stove top. My best friend sets the table. She lights a birthday sparkler and puts it in my pasta. I rise from my repose, running a hand over my satiny, negligee-like cocktail dress. 

Who would’ve thought that a year into being a newly minted divorc√©e, I’d be having the most romantic dinner of my life? I stand barefoot, looking at my best friend of years with my moist, stinging eyes. 

Her gentleness (and sensuality and eroticism) is overwhelming on this day that would’ve swallowed me alive: Valentines day; a day that is simultaneously my birthday, the anniversary of my wedding day, and the day before the day my husband filed for divorce. So yeah, today should suck.

“Are you ready to get smashed while we watch Gilmore Girls, or what?” Riesling says, holding my glittering, birthday plate of pasta.

“You know it, kid.”

********************************

ūüĆĆEvanesce: Enchanted RomanceūüíčūüíĖ

Let’s evanesce in a coruscating mushroom cloud of magical, mauve smoke;

We’ll fly away to the morning star in a copper teapot, splitting rainbows with the Bowie knife of a sea glass prism.

Bring your sequined mage’s cape, we’ll go see Silver Leopard, the big top aerialist.

We’ll ride a glass elevator to tomorrow; steaming up its panes with Cleopatra’s secret treasury of cobra tongue kisses.

I’ve got a golden fishtail braid: Rapunzel’s rope; I’m hanging by it out of a steam powered balloon, my hand extended to you.

Grab it and we’ll soar together over the spires of Victorian London, dangling by a yellow thread of princess hair.

Night

Lips of Croatia,
satiny with rubies
lining the vulva.

Night’s flower is a
crocus shaped
wine chalice
dribbling stars of fire:

ethereal blooms
of violet tint Eros in
the sky.

Faerie-green
Borealis, bewitching
and fey, grows a
crystal garden
of emeralds that
are as plumb and
lambent as buttery
Sari silks.

To be kissed
by a feathery mouth
as beautiful sounding
as Croatia is
Tea and Sympathy
in and of
its self.

My Goodnight Kiss Was…

Blonde Hyades

ascends singing,

time to say goodbye,

like Pavarotti

Night is on the lam; Cinderella flames

in V-formation & Dracula kiss-

es white sabers into

this décolletage

* of stars *

(VV)

Stars: this coruscating

moiré of superimposed mol-

ecules

                like Her Her-

cules, they refract the

sunrise

Shining Taurus

the musk ox

is hyaline like the wet

of a kiss,

Or like the metathesis

of wet, sea glass glim-

mer in

a moor of moire