hot chills frost 'd over her quivering fingertips as she reach'd out for the spot where they once made love; a spot forgotten years ago when she chose to let this addiction enter her world: and although she did not want to deal with the past anymore;

the scent of his obsession was a fix defying all romantic intervention.

salvaging her dignity from what was left of a summer time fling; the bead'd dew kissing the humidity of body magic, pulsating against the earth forming conjugal mounds of seismic wave after wave that rock'd them back and forth. . . and in the end, waving goodbye to one another.

and days later she remembers asking herself

do i, or don't i call?
do i, or don't i write?
do i, or don't i repent?

regardless of her decision, the outline of his face is forever emblazen'd in her salvag'd virgin soul that burns from within against the backdrop of The Cross.

 
  © 2006 cynth’ya lewis reed
all rights reserv’d 
 
         Twin Poem: After-Desire