1 minute read
Roses are Red
The room fills with cigarette smoke and her warmth runs over my paper thin skin like a gardener tends to roses, gentle and lovingly. She’s tracing patterns of figure eights over my chest, like this feeling could last for eternity in the soft orange light of the setting sun. Her fingers wrap around my cheek following my so-called soft jawline and down my neck eventually falling off my sloped collarbones, only to start again in a slow seducing cycle.
In this moment I feel like a singular red rose, an icon of beauty and her desire, a fuel for her passion and romantic love. And in this split second am I icarus, flying too close to the sun, held in the arms of a forbidden lover. Or does this anthophile see me as Persephone, a red haired sweetheart, an immortal being who would dare eat from the lustful pomegranates and would lie helplessly in the florist’s arms.
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As her soft lips push into mine all sense of fear disappears. Her aura is seductive yet exciting and in