The leaves of the flower bowed from the burden of the oppressive heat .
Bored, the bee flew out.
I watched the blades of the broken ceiling fan move languidly,
Having no effect on the stifling heat that held the air in the room in a tight embrace.
We lay in the old canopied bed,
My head sunk in the soft pillow, him on top of me,
We clung onto each other in awkward poses as if hit by rigor mortis after our La Petite Mort,
His weight made me cramp,
Yet I did not move lest I broke this blissful moment.
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| Image courtesy of m.imgur.com |
My free hand traced his back with finger tips,
His skin was sticky with sweat,
As was our belly bare skin which smelt of forbidden fruits, debauchery and all things sweet and succulent,
His breath had now steadied and I could feel his heart slamming against the walls of his rib cage.
I shifted slightly to relieve the pins and needles in my leg,
He deliciously moaned in his sleep,
And pulled me closer.
Lulled by his heartbeat and hypnotized by the languorous motion of the fan blades,
I drifted off to sleep.
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