golden mill

My hands reach up high, past her thighs and along the sides of each breast. She purses her lips, as if to say something in a whispered voice, but never speaks. Her eyes close, in pleasure and pain, and in that moment I am her lover. They say she once was queen- wrapped in scarlet with tassels at her feet.

She is flat now on her back, still, like a dead fish out of water, and her legs, like lures, dangle aimlessly about. Her hair, a pale amber, has soiled the satin sheets, while pools of crimson gather at each nostril, filling her folded skin. But once she was queen- with butter cream curls and a gait to woo the paupers.

Time has taken its want, though, and her body now lies vacant. Lifting each leg, exposing her warmth, I cradle tight her toes and swaddle her pain and my own. And like a screaming infant, gasping for breath, life begins again.

She calls to me like a daughter, and I answer in song to ease her lonely nights. And in the morning when I wake her, her pain's beside her, and once again I reach past her thighs, and up near each breast, and in that moment I am her lover.