There is a strange light here on this pale afternoon.
It illuminates quietly and carries fewer sounds. It is gentle and blurs the hard edges. It becomes diffused and soft. It slows time.
She is here.
Her presence is permanent yet not constant. Sometimes she is no more than a tug at my sleeve, a barely discernible whisper in my ear, a shadow at the edge of my vision.
Other times I can almost touch her, smell her scent, feel the movement of the air as she passes.
The most dangerous of times are when she is beside me, her hands reaching for mine, her body pressing against me. I can feel the swell of her breasts against my chest, sense the curve of her hips beneath my hands. I am aware of her thighs, slightly parted.
My fingers ache for her.
In this uncommon light it seems, if I imagine her for more than a moment, I could transport her rare beauty from where she is now, to here.
And where would we all be then?
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by Thomas Saliot