Six Word Stories: Impassioned

The world froze whilst we burned.

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Cream

Milk rolls over leather.

No, moon over tanned skin.

Is it?

Stars in my eyes;

This girl’s celestial.

Are the heavens moving, 

Or me?

A rotation of limb or light,

a porcelain persuasion,

Enticing,

A flickering of might,

Tickle of possibly.

This girl’s bewildering;

I’m¬†bewildered.

And I will be

Again, and again,

Until she turns to cream.

 

November Parting

A tempestuous lover,

November departs.

In a squall of exuberant,

Hair flutterings

And lost scarves,

The Fall redhead is spent.

She packs her clothes,

And is away in a flurry of foul words

And dark nights lost.

Time for a Winter romance,

Curling up before the fire,

And lazy days in bed,

Perhaps?

A moments calm.

Everything changes,

But November’s parting

Will always be remembered. 

Syrup

Like syrup, you pour

Unstoppable flow

In amber shades of gold

Oozing

The sticky ichor of your being

Clinging to every surface

Coating, obscuring

The real treat

Within

That unmistakable sweetness

Candy coated you

Which permeates my blood

Addictive

And I know, I’m hooked

Would bathe in the syrup

Of your love 

Willingly

Until it made me sick

Like Hansel

And I’d love it

And I’d want it

And I’d die for it

Your syrup

Whiskey

She was made in a whiskey glass,

One shot heaven

And another of hell.

Her eyes sparkled emerald

Through the nicotine haze,

Cowboy boots tapping to her very own soundtrack. 

She offered some comfort,

But I wasn’t sure what,

So sat down beside her 

And wiped the sweat from my face;

The arm of my leather jacket squeaking with the effort.

The barman slammed one down;

It startled me, not her.

And as she drew back her long, wavy hair,

Raven like the bird’s plumage,

She winked.

That was all,

A wink.

When the barman swept away the last of her change,

I bought her another.

“Whiskey,” she said.

“My name, not the drink.”

Intoxicated was I, 

On the fumes of her disdain;

Drunk in charge,

My mind and soul.

We left after midnight the very next day.

Drove for the coast;

I’m not sure which.

When we get there,

I’ll write something again.

Don’t wait.

It might take a while.


She: My Eternity


 Her breath was my morning a most wondrous fog
 To be lost in a sunrise with no one but she
 
 Her lips were like midday a pouting, ruby kiss
 To be burnt by their touch without ever a singe
 
 But it is her eyes I remember most, stars ablaze in silvered night
 To tread those celestial beams and never wake up
 
 A single day and night,
 But an eternity of memories
 
 
 
 
 

Her Taste

Tangible, I twirled her essence around my fingers
 
 A translucent force, the ghost of a memory.
 
 Long, raven hair streamed through the darkness there, yet not
 
 Indivisible from the night she dwelt in.
 
 More real than any ocular vision, she existed in the very air I breathed,
 
 Played in it, lived for it.
 
 How I could feel so much, hear every breath,
 
 When the time we’d spent together had been nothing but a feral conjunction,
 
 One that I could neither be sure of, nor truly believe happened?
 
 But in those nights since, when the moon was most diminished,
 
 I felt her even more.
 
 I could taste her, roll her around my tongue,
 
 And the hunger gnawed at my very soul.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Succumbed


 She drew slender fingers through chestnut hair:
 I noticed.
 
 Then batted eyelashes fashioned in a Parisian salon:
 I wavered.
 
 Her skirt, oriental silks, rippled in the slightest breeze:
 I drooled.
 
 When she moved, the fullness of her figure revealed:
 I palpitated.
 
 As her lips parted in sweet dialogue:
 I succumbed.