Pillar of Salt

There’s a deep sadness that overcomes me when I see a beautiful woman. A heart swell of remorseful want. A bittersweet lust for something never attained. Ever elusive. Tormented by the tease.

We descend underground. The platform. The car. The Last Train Home.

She passes me, commanding space and I feel the dangerous proximity to the divine. So close that I notice the soft hairs of her nape. A chill of fragmentary time.

She enraptures me so. I’d invite her to feast on my flesh, to devour my sons, but it’s her silent denial that has me undone.

Unseasoned. Unsolicited. A crime worthy of charge.

I’d chance singed lashes of wanton longing, placing myself in peril, for looking too hard.

She’s worth my becoming a pillar of salt.

Even Lot’s wife looked back to remember.

And I want to recollect every curvature under every crease of her garment. The cascade of curls about her breasts. The soft swells of her breath. The full pout of her lips. Her eyes that hold and won’t let go.

I would yield, would revel. I am Tantalus feigning worship to taste stolen nectar. Poached ambrosia. Ethereal scents of sweet floral perfume and the musk of her sex. Pheromones yield fair moans. Her fruit forever out of reach.

My thirst eternal.

Thank you Kate Valentine for this Friday Freestyle: “Last Train Home”