With a pen he wrote each time,
On the wrist, dragging it all the way to the palm and encircling the fingers to form rings.
Then slowly the hands as cold as the fear in me were clasped and caressed gently,
As if putting of a fire you lit on purpose with just a few droplets of the wine from the glass.
Then slowly the hands advanced towards the shoulders, shivering in the muddled icy environment on the sofa near the furnace.
The clasp went so tight that my shoulders stood still and I lost all the strength to sense what was happening, then all I heard was, “do you still love me?”
I stood there until he looked at me from the entrance door, with a bouquet of yellow roses, bound the way I’d love to see them, and an arousing scent of vanilla aphrodisiac filling the little cosy room!
How? How? How could it be? He had lost way before into the smog and cloud and seemed like the one at the door came from there, bestowing all the grot in him to the clouds making them heavier to pour down and demolition the crud!