August 2020



 

Tonight I—

 

wanted to impress you.

 

Not so casually I chose

sleek black heels,

a short leather skirt

    with a zipper

      that ran diagonally

 

Paired fairly

with a long-sleeved

silk blouse

 

Navy,

with black buttons

undone— 3 down;

              generously

              showing off

the hint of dark lace

below rounded flesh

and calculated

sweet scents.

                

At dinner I watched you

               run two fingers

               down a stem

               of a wine glass

like a nervous tic;

smiling downwards

             after words,

                    through

           our unspoken

                 intentions.

 

At certain angles

you’d catch the glimmer

my eyes reflected by

delicately tuned

sarcasm

 

It’s true:

I loved it,

you loved that I loved it,

and we barely

muttered words.

 

I was charmed.

 

Privately,

I thanked myself

for the

wise choice

of cotton material:

at the very least

a thin barrier

to pitiful

increases of fluid

matched to your

blood-flow.

 

We had almost finished dinner,

you were hungry

and I—

so full now

of an inherent

desire to feed.

 

I knew

if black leather

     were to be hiked up

     and scrunched,

with panties

intact

 

You’d certainly

be smothered

in every

scent molecule

you could

breathe in,

 

through your

mouth and

nose.

 

Maybe then,

I thought,

I’d allow your

wine stained

tongue

for a while

 

Knowing this, of course—

my heart quickens

Rachel Lauren is a 30-year-old Miami-born writer currently living in Los Angeles, CA. Drawn to the darkly erotic and oddities that charm and challenge our psyche, her poetic mission aims to put the convolution of love, sex and human nature into ink.