PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Ah Navreet, i fear you have disappeared from the face of my dusty, tea-soaked earth. My final memory of you is a pleasant one: you told me that i looked nice in my incomplete mortician's black and red tie. You waited until all your friends had gone their various ways, came in to my little cell and bid me farewell with a feigned excuse of collecting loose ends. I didn't know it was the last time i would ever see you, but in a way i'm glad it was...

In my mind's eye it's late twilight. In reality i've just gotten off the late bus, so it's probably inky blackness. Aphrodite and the seafoam green penis the bore her are reverberating in my ears, when suddenly i notice that she stands in front of me, at least a thousand feet tall - her skin the strident dal brown that wealthy men will pay thousands of dollars to adorn their floors and doors and tables and window panes. Her toes are slender and dainty in spite of her general largesse, and the bare legs lead up, up, up - so far that i can barely see through ribbons of dark blue cloud. She is the picture of Renaissance modesty: shameful Titian throws down his pallette in frustration. She looks down upon me in indulgence through her dark, yet daintily-pruned eyebrows, with her lips pursed in that queer, innocent expression that i will forever associate with her features. Serious, yet indulgent. The aristocratic angle of her long nose and the dark red of her lips adorned with some grudgingly-sanctioned beauty product. But her beauty is unquestionable, unsurpassed, and sweetly unassuming. She stands in her seashells, while the atmospheric ocean crashes around her, honestly wondering why it is that i gaze up at her in awe. Her forearm covers her breasts in that Classical pose of casual modesty - the fingers long an lithe, manicured to fine points of translucent light. I imagine they must be small, for i detect no trace of them in my penitant gaze. The belly that surrounds her long, shadowy navel is lean and tight with a glow that blurs the edges and minutely combines softness and hardness in an immaculate and singular instant of reconciliation. The dark blue-black swirl of her hair has suddenly grown longer and mercifully covers her sex, which i cannot will myself to describe or even imagine.

I am on my knees now, and i inch forward at a reverential pace. My head is shaved clean, and i am naked underneath my coarse brown cowl. I shrivel and collapse into myself in the unforgiving snow as night ascends and her body is hidden by light pollution and the starry blackness. But long after, the flesh of my back rent with self-flagellation, i somehow still detect her radiant black eyes upon me and in truth desire nothing more than to be gathered in those arms and held against that breast and withdrawn secretly into the mystery of night.