Black sheaths or The optician

Her car rolls up, lights flash, I wait—
In my little black dress, cool night, cold gate.
Refined minimal, craving thrill,
Hungry for the pulse, for that first spill.
A room of mirrors, crowd fills in,
Folks in clusters, small talk, gin.
But the floor lies bare, untouched by feet,
And my friend sips slow, as the rhythms beat.
I let it go, take first steps, alone,
Music spins, I twist, make it my own.
Then—he's there, moving close and near,
A sly look, smooth hands, no fear.
Spin once, twice, breath held tight,
His hand on my back, whisper light.
Feels good, I let myself unwind,
I don’t know why, don’t need to mind.
And then—his door, we find our way,
Soft drinks, soft words, sheets in sway.
He’s long and hard, and knows the care
To keep me safe, to meet me there.


I yield, I sway, in rhythm’s flow,
A nymph in his river, soft and slow.
In pulse and pause, I feel the sway,
As we move deeper, drift, give way.
Yet in his eyes, a shadow deep,
A scratch, a wound, a heart that keeps.
He gives himself, asks for no vows,
Just to feel peace, just here, just now.
I comfort him, a gentle friend,
But I leave again; this has an end.
For love is kept, where I belong—
In quiet vows, in something strong.
Two coffees more, then break, then gone,
A whispered truth, a drawn-out dawn.
Not his to keep, nor mine to stay,
We part as shadows fade away.

---

Nov 1999