Art and Poetry

Last Bus route

Her perfume tickles my senses inappropriately..
I’m bothered and alert, but I like it.
I start to examine all the creases and curvatures of her being
My eyes run laps up and down her body

Her blouse, white as cocaine, immaculately pressed, preserving every seam
The rim of her beige skirt barely brushing the back of her knees
Her skin looks palatable. A soft caramel dream with chocolate chip blemishes
Her hair is black and soft like the ocean at the still of midnight, styled in tall intricate twists like the vines of the amazon

Her lower back is slightly arched, highlighting the fullness of her behind
I can feel her stress, and her anxiety to get home
To strip down and release it on her lover

If she has a lover that is…not many men would put up with these late nights.
Most men would want dinner at six, but all she could offer is takeout and some quick sex

I’d imagine this is the struggle of the woman trying to make a path for herself
Late nights, short relationships, little to no social life..the price she pays for ambition

She’s determined that she’ll make it with or without a man to hold her hand
And with or without friends to support her
She’s her own lover, her own counsel, her own source of motivation

I want to know her, to learn her and maybe love her if she allows
I want us to build something that will contend with the 7 known wonders of the world

If only she’d see these words and knew it was me
If only she could see the King that is trapped beneath this basic white shirt and plaid tie
If only she could see the greatness that could be in store for us
If only….


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