Nothing about this hangs together yet, I'm still stretching for it instead of writing from within it. Damn you, WordsWorth, for making me think about process!! *shakes fist*
It will come.
I was a free woman when I walked in this place,
Worshipping only my independent will,
A woman of means, never mind how I got it,
Serving my own sweet whims, subject
To no man’s demands.
I entered as he was telling some tale,
Bullshit about water turning to whiskey, and
How women followed him, seeking his touch
To heal their ailing hearts. Libidos, I snorted,
Sailing past, still thinking I belonged to
At the table, a friend introduced us.
I am not sure whether it started
When he first touched my hand or
When I looked up and got lost in his eyes, but
Suddenly broadsided by tenderness and
Unable to swallow for wanting to touch
His lips, I was lost.
The stories he tells, son of a god
Are they real? Is that his magic? I don’t
Know if he can raise the dead, except when
His amp is too loud, but he can perform miracles.
Why else do I find myself washing his feet
With my hair?