Weakness He is fascinated by the sticky, clear, juice spurting from the ripe orange circle and trickling slowly down her fingers. Hes thinking about the roses in the bright pink canteen on her dresser and the way she let him slip his hands around her when they sat on the hood of his silver Porsch, The way she said, You dont strike me as the type to ask, before he tasted the raspberry and honey tea of her lips. Her turquoise robe should be spun of silk Real silk, from China, threaded with golden fibers that dont fray. He wants to buy her one and drape it over her white shoulders and lift her polished-copper hair away from her neck and taste the place at the tip of her spine the place where she said she wanted to tattoo a trail of blue stars. And he wonders if her resulting shiver would remind him of his Power. Or his weakness.
Text file Source (historic): geocities.com/the_real_sedeara/Poetry
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