She glides across the room in a crimson dress, my breath catches in my throat, her very presence creates an unfurling of desire. I cannot resist her siren call, just a glance brings me to my knees begging for her inspiration. I want to fall into the depths of her soul, my longing for release overwhelming.
Our eyes meet as her dark beauty overtakes my vision, weakening my resolve. She leans close to whisper a promise of feverish prose we will create together.
She slides a finger down my arm, bringing goose bumps to my skin and a flutter to my heart. Her bewitching gaze leaves no room for defiance. I pursue her as she exits the room, reeling with infatuation.
She welcomes me into her embrace, sparks of passion heat up the pages as we create the next verse. Her presence enthralls me, her ravishing beauty leading me to extravagant heights and extended sonnets.
With a sharp intake of breath, I am under her spell. My Muse releases my virtuosity, my unbridled prose, leaving my creativity lying on the page, spent.
My journal lies forgotten beside the bed, my scripts tossed aside the edges curling from age. I have forgotten the stroke of her hand, the brush of her lips as she whispered sweet prose for my pencil to create. Our passionate tryst just a memory, a forgotten photograph of happier times.
Though I try to recreate the rapture she invoked, my prose is lacking enchantment and intrigue. My Muse brought the pages to life with her dangerous ways, her wanton presence. Without her, I am a shadow of the writer I used to be, longing for the bountiful scripts she inspired.
My days have blended into months, her scent no longer lingers on the breeze from the open window. The yearning has subsided, her memory has faded into the background of my mind. I no longer reach out to stroke her silken hair, my heart no longer skips a beat at the thought of her dulcet tones.
The breeze stirs, the pages of my journal shudder in anticipation. The curtains float away from the window, the summer breeze carries a glimpse of her perfume. My heart beats faster, I can almost feel her breath against my skin.
Ah! Is it real? Has she returned?
I feel the brush of her lips against my ear, whispering promises of forgotten ecstasy. I turn from my desk; she is standing next to me her presence captivating in it's dominance.
In my haste I stumble, falling into her arms with reckless abandon; A scorned lover forgiven. She embraces me as if she was only gone a moment, leaving me sobbing with relief. She beckons me toward the locus of my enslavement with a bewitching look in her eyes.
Again My Mistress captivates my heart and soul with a frenzy of unbridled prose.
She left in the darkness of night without a whisper or touch of her hand. The scent of her raven hair, the soft caress of her lips, her exquisite red dress the only things I remember.
The bed empty of her warmth, the sheets carelessly thrown aside the only sign of our passionate tryst. Withered rose petals littered the floor, a fading memory of happier times when we made sweet prose together. The petals turning brown along the edges, barren and parched like the void in my soul.
Her siren song of promise fading into the last sorrowful notes of a concerto in E minor as I reach out to caress her face only to find a hint of her perfume lingering on the pillow beside me.
She warned me a time would come when she would
slip away, leaving me barren of creativity, empty of inspiration. Her promise to return someday
echoing in my head like a forlorn wind wailing at the loss of life.
My journal lay forgotten, a landscape desolate and abandoned by her quickly fading memory. With a partially finished script in hand, I rise from our haven of fertile declarations to return to my desk. I search the discarded pages of desire in hopes of finding the joy hidden among the lines of text; the tattered bits of a pencil in my hand.
