|Mon Coeur, Tu Ne Sais Pas
Author: painting andromeda PM
My heart, you know not.Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance/Tragedy - Words: 543 - Published: 05-31-07 - Status: Complete - id: 2369568
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Monsieur, let me be.
This is something
A living canvas of my guilt, and your
affronting the name of your impurities.
Believing in the bare horizon that you once did reveal to me
(In secrecy of course,
but I was always told
by the Machiavellian winds
to trust what others would believe
and that, of course, was you).
I am not this, Monsieur.
This garter you choose to demote
is merely an illusion of your
that encompass my thighs
and leave me penniless.
(Like that man we once saw, Monsieur,
in the alleyway, alone with his sitar
& broken bottle to mix rum and arsenic,
praying for rain
and any sort of
But oh, Monsieur, how those days ravaged
my canvas of
and my hardships.
And I pray for my dahlia,
that you, Monsieur
from the palms of my hands;
softly outlining the creases
splashed across my skin,
tempting the horizon of my innocence to set
And then you folded them discreetly with yours,
like that map you once loved
my folds like roads,
leading to your soul, Monsieur.
And you showed me Versailles,
a hall of mirrors just for me
(In my dream:
Ne pas craindre, Monsieur).
You showed me it all, chéri,
fields of sunflowers, and perennials and daisies
glasses upon glasses of milk
containing, my salvation in a sense-
And you led me to the south of France,
walking along the shores of the beaches,
caressing the sweet lullabies of the sea
with our toes,
evoking memories which to me were poignant.
And your fingers traveled up up up!
Speaking of how beautiful
fixed before a backdrop of a sweet oleanders
tendering and nursing the scene in your mind,
to fit a more
(worth wanting or seeking).
And the then you progressed down down down!
beyond the guard of my
dress, sweet darling
Sweetly violating the standards of a prude,
(To my avail, but nobody knows).
The knot of my boudoir became yours,
No longer a dilemma in what the outcome
would have been.
And my lips let out shrill
as they wrapped themselves around your fingertips
constricting viciously what you were striving to make yours.
And ooh, mon peu de sucre
such breath you allowed
to enter my lungs
and emit once again,
to entangle again around the tips of your fingers.
"Oui" was never an object
in the vocabulary of this charisma.
Assumptions can be deadly, Monsieur.
So here we lie once again, in a field of oleanders,
cases of milk at our feet
You take control of my hands
A primitive example of what this day
Raw and speechless,
As I was
in my entirety.
So, Monsieur, let me be.
This is something
With your hands on mine
you trace the creases of my hands,
meticulously and gingerly
(in a sense).
And you told me I was
that I wasn't.
And the tips of your fingers grazed the folds,
like that map you once loved,
Leading me in all directions,
to your soul.