I sit on the tattered couch,
watching the clock tick
like a slow son of a bitch
in an assembly line,
waiting for quitting time.
Fingers tapping on the armrest,
heart thumping a slow
and patient drum
to Van Morrison’s Moondance
spilling from the speakers.
Shadows converge on the wall.
The street burns outside,
passion and pain.
Headlights flicker through the blinds.
I can almost feel her steps
before the door creaks,
the faint scent of her heat
clinging like smoke
to the hallway.
I imagine my fingers
caressing her orchid,
her hips grinding against mine.
The desire between us rises
like a West Coast wildfire.
My body remembers
how she loves it, how I love it.
How we collide, blazing, urgent,
and the clock keeps its slow,
apathetic click.
The key jingles in the lock.
She steps inside.
Sly, slick smile.
The bedroom seems miles away.
Hands tangled in hair.
Mouths colliding.
Her knees brace the couch.
My body presses hard behind her.
Skirt pulled up over her hips.
The world has vanished.
Just heat, thrusting, one with us.
Covenant bliss
and the clock still ticking.
Helpless witness to our gravity.
For a reading of some of my work f
Passionately penned, Thomas. Beautiful write my friend, can’t go wrong with Van Morrison. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thanks, my friend.
This has a nice build to it Thomas. The wait and the mind, taking you where the body wants to go.
Thank you.
A lovely detailed piece. As Damian also said, Van Morrison is the king! GREAT!
Thanks
Bloomin brill good sir and I most definitely aint talking fish .. Neville
Thank you, my friend.
Well, damn. From the tedium of the ticking clock to the eruption of passion upon her arrival, this was a held breath piece! Damn…