The Lover's One Act Play
by Aspen Stroud
Pale skin in a heap upon the floor by frigid calloused feet.
A costume shed by a pair of prying eyes that feed of supple flesh, tickled pink.
The intricate ceremony, an unveiling of a soul that reveals the pulsing, desirable, swollen heart beneath.
Masculine fingers stroke the mind,
Forcing hormones to flood and coat the nerves;
Causing eyelids to flutter, moans to escaoe,
Voices to lose their words.
Heavy breaths drown the room with saccharine whispers
As masks are peeled from lover's rubicund, placid faces.
Once oblivious to the other's raw form,
Gazes are given to study and memorize.
Eventually, the compnaion's body the learned hand traces.
Lungs strive on the borrowed, steamy air supplied by a lingering kiss.
An astonishing, practiced, tedious dance performed upon a stage of cushioned springs,
White sheets drenched with the product of caressing fire, searching lips.
Entangled are two bodies,
As cries split the night with furious, longing lust.
Passion swelling in muscles tense, moving with its own thoughts, of its own accord.
This is the time when unmoved, unused, boring, red metal men
Remove their cloaks of rust and feminine plains the storm.
Hands mold what previously was untouched.
Lovers: sculptors of soft, malleable substance themselves;
Artists in a highly obsessive, splendid, posessing, twitching state,
Creating worlds that without lover's hands wouldn't, couldn't shape.
Emotions spiral out from wandering eyes like beams.
Looks like ribbon that wrap up the moment in little bows,
Making it a present from the present presence the other peaceful being portrays and shows.
Love, cocooning two wishing caterpillars in silk weaved beds,
Fat and lazy with lust and desire.
Yells of joy escape half-open lips as necks roll back with heavy heads.
Skin is painted and etched with traveling fingertips, backs arch, bodies sway.
With a gasp,
The bodies collapse,
As actors do always bow
To end their magnificent play.