Two minutes ago, she was wearing a white slip, standing in front of the window while the morning light sneaked in around the shades and swirled around her like smoke. The way the shadows moved across her hips and her belly made me want to put my face against her stomach, in hopes that they would move across me in the same way.
One minute ago, her slip was on the floor, abandoned in a pool of light like a cat sleeping in the sun. Her arms were crossed at the wrists, hands held together in bird wings, and the shadows moved up her belly to gather under her breasts and in the hollow of her throat.
Now she is on the bed, laying on her side, one arm beneath her head, the other arm beneath that. Her hair falls over her back like water, flowing out across the sheet in a flood. The shadows gather below her neck and in the small of her back, dark chocolate across white icing, sugar for the tasting.
The future is made of tea leaves and cloudbursts, from bare skin and gossamer strands of dusty sunlight that wrap like fingers around your shoulders and hips, pulling you forward with the inevitability of a lover’s desire.