The Model

Her hair’s the colour of yellow buttercups,
and you swear it’d feel as soft to touch as you imagine
clouds to be; if you could just wrap your fingers in it
you know that you’d bring it to your face, and smell
jasmine and honeysuckle. You long to swipe your tongue
along that strip of bared skin; tasting butterscotch
and honey. Her lips hold the scent of cherries, tart
like the pies you would smell every summer
cooling on your Grandmother’s windowsill. You imagine
they would be soft as satin, unlike the velvet
of her skin, drawing you in further as you sink
deeper into an embrace. But these will always be idle thoughts
and dreams, for you have heard that her words slide bitter
from her tongue, leaving nothing but the harsh aftertaste
of ash lodged in your mouth; tainting the wonderland
of glorious enticements, leaving them rotten and
stinking. So you resign yourself to wishful imaginings
knowing such sweet temptations can only disappoint.