Let a wand of feather guide me, as the sun fastens long shadows to the side of the motorway. I am making my way towards you. A wren flies across my path, her low zigzag making light of the situation. If you can call adultery a situation. If you can call rapture a situation. The way is lit by the shine of you, the evening's glow elongating the day. I'm restless, as I'm meant to be, anticipating the exchange of small incendiary sparks between us. Imagining the gloss of your smooth planes, the subtle scent of you, bugle maybe. Foxglove in the rain. Did I tell you I am a pluviophile? I want to wear you on my pulse points, the base of my spine, my wrists, my throat.
Let's blow it all, all this evening's gold until we can lie together, full spent, light and airy, as the breeze moves the curtains in this rented room and the day blesses us for her darlings once again. Who knew as I set out the day would shift from brave to brazen, to offer us something so unexpectedly tender, so poignant. Who knew the wand of feather would guide me to a nest as sweet and purposeless as this?
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
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