Incubus

Such are the remains of her day
that she sits before her vanity contemplating reflection;
for the mirror is the conjecture of her life.
Yet as her mind is filled with the warmth of wine and ambiguity;
dare she assume the responsibility
- Of her regrets.

Her eyes glisten with candle light
imagining a lover’s fingers combing through her hair;
that she lays her cheek lovingly against the illusion of its warmth.
Not yet the rose withered might she still be plucked,
the wine casts its spell over the weather
- Of her age.

Closing the doors of her reality
she throws open the windows of imagination.
Thus playing out the possibilities of passion in her mind
that she mimic’s intimate conversation with her erroneous company.
When a voice gently touches her shoulder bare
- “My precious.”

….

Might it be the evening’s breeze
that it gently parts the length of her hair soft.
Falling so tenderly down the nakedness of her back smoothly,
maneuvering beneath the undercarriage of her ribs
and yet not before cupping the firmness of her breast’s arousal
- To rest upon hip.

Her nipples purl with awakening
as her heart skips with a kind regard to the sensual sensation.
That it is merely the leniency of her anticipation
inciting her to lay her head back in self sacrificing vulnerability.
If only to rest her cheek against what may be
- An evening’s breeze.

Bearing no more of this fantasy
she pirouettes anxiously upon cushion with an exalted expectation
only to address the dancing remorse of her own shadow.
White silken lace dances and spins wildly about an opened window.
She sulks to the sill and closes the sash harshly
- Desire turns to despair.

…

So is her bed cold comfort
yet she sinks into its soft asylum as the candlelight flickers and fails.
Moonlight fills the room with its gentle ambiance
as she lets the wine warm her heart with the illusion of its intimacy;
reminiscing to her self “I will always love you.”
- As if she mattered.

The twilight her carousel
that she pulls the satin of her sheets up around her shoulders
and watches her dreams spin upon the ceiling
That clinging tightly to the faithfulness of her pillow
she presses her cheek delicately into the familiarity of its coolness
- Seeking security.

Shadows gather quietly
as the hot wax drowns out the last of her candles flame.
Thus she slips across the threshold of sleeps dark and silent gate;
yet conscious of another presence in the darkness,
she waves it off as the whispering vanity of loneliness in her ear
- “My precious.”

…

The fickleness of dreams -
surrealistic stepping stones of our most vaunted desires
might we become kings or queens or lay with unrequitable lovers.
An ability to unravel the mysteries of our deepest secrets
as well as keys that unlock the doors of our
- Darkest fears.

Such is her hearts intent
that she surrenders to the pleasures of her own self appreciation
and succumbs to the warmth of an imaginary lover.
The impassioned heat of his whisper moving along her shoulder
carelessly confiding wanton secrets unto her ear
- Susceptible.

She writhes in delusion
as hands gently defy the sanctity of her sheets.
Exploring the naked continent of her porcelain flesh excitable,
she shivers with the fever of her anticipation
as the whisper discovers the scent and secret of her garden
- “My precious…”

…

Tending her own garden
she parts thighs reverently and opens the petals of her flower
a like any blossom which would wish to be plucked,
allowing the whisper to browse the benevolence of its bouquet
as she mouths the words silently to her self
- “My precious.”

Whisper becomes wind
stirring wild the waves upon her shore
that her orchid glistens with the dew of stimulation,
as her leniency of his illicit touch warms a sensual apprehension.
An elation of paroxysmal exhilaration unfelt in years.
- She raises her chalice.

“Drink of me” she insists
as she tosses her cautionary inhibitions to the wind.
and wrapping her thighs firmly around the shadowy lover
she graciously presses the wine of her fruit generously into his cup.
Her needs being more important than her demands
- She persists “Take me.”

…

Passion is fueled by fire
commencing with the selfless spark of an intimacy’s touch
and then fanning that flame into a bonfire of vanity.
Thus the price of passion is found in the recklessness of rapture,
yet favoring the cost of its consequence that we
- Worthy the pain.

Song becomes symphony
then so does symphony become cacophony
as she feels the full weight of his body upon her now.
The inflexibility of excitement pressing against her inner thigh
she throws open the flood gates of heaven
- Inviting the deluge.

The wind turns tempest.
She lifts her hips to greet his unbridled thrusts;
bodies lathering of sweet scented sweat and sexual insatiability
she is at the precipice of her sexualities closure.
Yet teetering on brink of ecstasy, she knows not whether
- To jump or fall.

…

The event of her horizon.
She desperately tries to hold on to the sensation
forbidding this precious moment of bliss to slip through her fingers.
Yet with every breath she takes, each beat of her heart
she cannot help but submit to the delicacy
- Of disaster

Eyes roll with possession.
Trembling with the adrenaline rushing through her veins
She burrows her face deep into the shadow of his shoulder hard.
Thus biting sharply into the apparition’s flesh
seeking atonement for the release of her sensualistic sin.
- “Hold me” she cries.

Locking legs around him
she rakes her fingernails down his back and provocatively digs in
preparing her self for his full and final mount.
Resulting in the heat of his eruption deep within her womb;
her eyes well with tears as there is nothing left to be had except
- Death and distance.

…

Collapsing into faithless arms
a shadow scurries wickedly along the wallboard avoiding the light.
“Stay.” She pleads. "Was our passion not in vain?”
The impish silhouette scampers past the moonlit window;
then mischievously making its way alongside the length of her bed
peers inquisitively at her from its distance
- “My precious?”

“Your precious.” She submits.
The gnomish figure scales the footboard of the bed
where it sits curiously studying the afterglow in her porcelain cheeks.
She reaches out to the shadowy figure and softly implores,
“Come to me, nay that I know the compassion of your arms again.”
- Eyes blink in response.

“Kiss me.” She murmurs.
It cocks its head hungrily it feeds on her desperation
then moves skillfully towards her, transcending her trembling thighs.
Perching itself competently on her still heaving breast,
and as a cat would steal ones breath, he would steal her last kiss.
As within the light of his face, she sees the death
- Of her loneliness.

…

Silken drapes glow of sunrise
as the mounting light caresses the contours of her face.
Does she sleep so soundly as the dead,
or is it that porcelain skin has turned to alabaster?
As upon her nightstand sits a stemmed glass spent of wine
and a scripted vial spent
- Of her soul.

Then so does her beauty sleep.
That what were once the whispers of love in the dark
were merely her unheard screams in the night.
Yet will there be anyone who will remember her name?
Therefore we must take a care of what it is we would dream for
as there is a little hell to be had
- In us all.

Thus are the perils of heart.
As Cleopatra seduced her asp; Ophelia was seduced by the river
then so did Juliet became her dagger’s own sheath.
What for is this madness which is wrought by loneliness
when all we ever wanted to be
- Was loved.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2002