Whacky Wednesday

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   I admire her, the way her messy hair gleams in the light from the setting sun, the innocent way it creeps across her skin, adorning it with a warm ocherous glow. Her hands move to her lips, causing mine to salivate, building the desire to be pressed to them again. A chain reaction began to take form as butterflies fought like rabid beasts in my gut. Then my ears perk up ... “Who are you?”—her voice, a siren's song, looking to lure me to my death. I watch as she bites her lip, the pulsating in my slacks growing stronger.
   My body frozen, bewitched by her beauty, I watch as her fingers dance over her lips - pining, longing, bleeding through her pores. Is she talking about me? “Where are you now? Are you lurking somewhere, watching me?” Slide down her chin, she traces the faint lines left by my blade. Answering my question as if, eerily, she heard me. I shake my head. That's impossible. “Yes, my Dove, I marked my territory, and by the gods, don’t you look stunning in faint red lines,” I whisper to myself. Her dainty fingers trickle further to the hem of her blouse, I stagger back, the look in her eyes, I have seen this look ... Is she .... I watch on with antici ...