Her voice enters before she does,
and his attention is drawn to her
as a fluttering, flying moth is pulled
to the porch light by some unknown
force. Love, perhaps.
No other words enter his ears
as his eyes go aflame, sparking and popping,
taken back in time, by portals and
wormholes. If he could break into song
and dance, he would.
Like a good boy, his eyes
stay above her neck, but I know that his mind
takes stock of her every motion:
the way she stands, the way she walks,
the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts,
how her arms brush her thighs.
And I cannot deny him this moment,
before words are exchanged, and her smile
sets the stage for what is to come. So I stand
and I wait, while his mind is stolen and his
body is accosted by all that she is and could be -
the hope of the possibility.
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