A solitary orange for breakfast; she delivers it with her unmistakably virginal smile,
kneels by my bed in thanks.
My body fizzes with polarising urges strong enough to kill us both.
Her apartment is beyond all comprehension; I feel undeserving of its pine-scented
air, the only discordant note in an otherwise harmonious melody.
She dresses in furs and heavy knits.
Her glowing skin and lithe body are untouched by the sweating guilt of midnight
trysts.
A nervous laugh rocks the vast drifts as our paths tentatively entwine across the
blank expanse of canvas.
Our eyes devour in absence of trembling lips.
The inevitability is palpable.
A joyful expression of unspoken lust; her hands scream to be touched.
I debate the drop, survey the cliff edge with a melting restraint.
Hurtling forth; I find myself discussing pickled herring in her father’s slippers.
God-fearing Christians, no doubt afraid of this wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Such a charming sheep, though. I bleat and graze with impeccable timing, convince
even myself.
Neither of us find sleep that night.
Impatience drives me to my annex room, whilst her mind is a dance of plush hearts
and handwritten love letters.
Another 12 hours to keep my mask from slipping.
Christie-Luke Jones is a poet, fiction writer and actor from Oxfordshire, England. Christie-Luke’s writing is strongly influenced by the Gallic blood that courses through his veins, as well as his interest in the more macabre aspects of the human condition. To see more of his work, visit www.christielukejones.com.
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