Slept In On Sunday

The rich get richer and the pretty die young but this is the way of things and so be it. It’s nothing to me because all I have is now and now is tucked safely under my elegant wings. He pleasures me so deeply I moan and weep and beg before I reach the outer limits of the perceptible universe and then roll on over to the sunny side of the bed.

There is nothing he would not do for me and nothing I don’t request. There are stars in my eyes and stars blinking all around on the sweet soft song of morning as it bounces and reflects all over itself in an ecstatic dance with all of the beauty ever expressed since the first lovers ever knew the aching gravity in the heat of their forbidden touch.

It is nearly autumn and the changing colors of my heart are already racing toward the end of a time which has held us hostage for far too long. Love is at the bottom of my coffee cup. Love is a white silk robe snug against smooth tanned skin. Love is warm like honeysuckled air and I don’t even mind it one bit.

My hair has turned light buttery blond under the hot rays of glimmering summer sun. I watch lazily in the mirror as I wrap small sections around the curling iron. The primping is low-key sexy. The eyes are just smokey enough with a hint of daytime brightness. Cool air skimps my bare back as it rushes through the open window.

Down below in the garden, a small gathering of butterflies flits and soars atop the last flowering blooms as they froth to life in their vibrant poppy reds and tropical oranges. I burn the tip of my finger because I’m not paying proper attention to the tools in my hand, too distracted by the way the afternoon sun caresses the leaves which sway atop the majestic trees.

On the seventh day, the good Lord rested and even though I’m not nearly as accomplished I went ahead and slept in, too. I don’t care for religion and I don’t care for church. I mess around with earthly indulgences in the hopes of remaining forever in a place and time which is destined only to crumble and never to last.

The big broken world cries softly on the other side of the front door to madness and I can’t bear to let it in.

I smear my lips with cotton candy gloss as he hands me a crystal flute full of bubbly, a plump red berry floating ripe and juicy on top.

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