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Rated: 18+ · Folder · Other · #1445275
Short free-verse. Usually written after a glass of wine, or because I can't sleep.
He sits there as I take my bath.
Downcast, as though waiting for maternal praise or forgiveness.
I know this, because 10 years with a man hones ones instincts.

But I feel uncomfortable within my own skin, so I am breaking routine.
I am in my own head, thinking instead, of stone and steel, which, once polished will reflect what they have been shown. As I am now.

He could grab hold of me, as he could a stone, or polished blade, but beneath the comforting reflection of himself, is found just rock and metal.
So he sits. Not speaking. Not looking.

And I almost remember being woman, pliable and soft and comfortable in my own skin.
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