I couldn’t sleep with the need to see you, so I have come. You’ve held me captive from the moment we met, my mind is a prison dancing with your image, your song, your laugh. My thoughts know nothing else.
You are an artist in your seduction, flirting and flickering around me. Preening, then darting off coyly. You trap me with your enchantment, like a nymph, a will-o-the-wisp.
You gaze at me gently, your skin pales as your love trickles from your fingers in delicate lacework of red, pools at your feet that shiver with every drip, every tiny giggling plink.
Your graceful fingers reach out to touch me, then shy away, beckoning and flirting, the smile glimmering in your eyes as you pout and pretend to be upset, candlelight shining from your manacles like the brightest gems.
But soon you give way to me, relaxing against me in our embrace, weak to your desire. Your hips sway to the rhythm of your chains across the concrete, your movements rich with your love of turning all the world into a song as we dance together in this prison I have come to love.
Archeon Tarot Prompt: 9 of Swords. 196 words. More tarot stories.
P.S. – This repost brought to you by my current distraction with cats. New things will be coming, but I need to let a few things simmer while I research.
Your quickly flicking glances, the stance that I know is a practiced kind of casual, your watchful pretense at relaxed conversation, gently swaying it from one side to the other to cover the range of information required by your whims, I know you. I’ve seen your kind lurking in musky corners.
Yet, I honor the ghost of dances past. Your heady presence draws me closer, the parts of my heart that become so painful when they rise, I hear their song. I’m slipping, swallowed into despair as I feel Undying Hope, in her callous innocence, rising to take my place.
This is not a club of promise and illusions, young would-be lovers peddling white lies. We are in the forest held by your heart, reflected in eyes full of shadows, where primal hungers rule.
I walk through trees growing twisted in their age and desperation, wind-torn leaves fluttering rumors as I pass. A glimpse of your light leads me onward through treacherous ground, the hold of the muck growing ever stronger as I fall into the heady lure of danger.
Twitter #GrimList2019 prompt: Will-O-The-Wisp
P.S.- I wasn’t going to do the prompt today, but Emika’s Wicked Game was playing during my morning coffee/Netflix routine and shit happened.