She and her lips

She is nothing more than me, but a figure suitable for longing, for want: lightly doused in sambucca, washed off with rain water, rolled in the sweat from his sternum when he climbed that hill that time in Spring, note the waft of cyclamen, or maybe it’s the non-scents of the cherry blossoms, their mad ramblings and far-flung flirtings.

She walks with her hips forward and her desire back and she wears nothing but that brief black dress and a simple idea of everyone else’s desires. She never licks her lips.

She is his.