Talking about hot cups of tea, this one blanched the rough of my tongue, what a nice gesture from the waiter.
The wicked green brew kept plopping with a wedge of lemon. But what annoyed me the most was the gnashing prickle of her perfume, that lemony zest of delight, promising all of the sweets of summer. Yet, denying me the mere touch on her perfect marble skin. I wanted to warp the soft dotted freckles on the pale mounds on her face. To suckle on the sweet nectar, oiled with a strawberry chap-swipe on those small tight lips.
She eludes me, even though we similarly exist on the same solid plane. Somehow, she floats and gloats above me, like a mocking demon, looming down on me as I wallow in the pit of my own spittling misery.
She slices through with her cackling laugh, and teases me with a glance, hidden with sparse yellow wisps of hair tickling the flitting summer breeze.
I watch this maiden. Claiming my soul from afar, I hate her, I hate the fact that I should love such a thing and call her my muse, my goddess, my sole destroyer. The name that summons my nightmares, the cold sigh of windy nights.
I hate her for all she is and would ever be in my head.
The she-cat takes off with her cup of brewed coffee and joins her clique of giggling friends. My hearts starts to pound slower, as the memory of her perfume begins to slip from my mind.
I regain my grip over my senses and begin to imagine how she looked like. She appeared again, from under a veil of rippling water, she started to laugh, at me, for me or with me. Who knows, who would ever care to know than to just relish in the warmth of her gleaming face.
Her face morphs back to the way she was a few days back, that time her hair was jet black, guarding a light colored contour, with two electric orbs of blue, A week ago, her hair could set the sun on fire again, with a flowing sanguineous mane of red. And two yellow eyes which would haunt for days and night to come.
I am the sole survivor of this slaying summer beauty delivered by sentinels of lust, and I bear witness with words hardly acknowledged or heard.
Should I trade this voice for a warm whisper to my ear?
No one should live the monstrous summer without a warm moist hand curling inside their own.
I am one with this misery, I breathe its breath and chant its hymn, wondering, when would I shed this awful cloak?