incandescent, i pause
in the doorway, just a shadow
outlined by darkness
but shining with the clarity
of midnight--
a perfect proof of shape
and form, with fingertips
just barely brushing
the wooden frame.
and you, for all your grand
great ideas, for the time
you have spent thinking
and pondering
and cogitating and agitating--
you are struck silent
by the figure i present,
by the curves
that disappear into silence
and the bend in my elbows
and the arch of
one mocking eyebrow.
feather-light i brush
just slightly against the air
in the room, spreading scent
and wafting womanhood
over your ego,
then turn and whisper
out the door,
down the hall,
into the night.