to a distant muse

I wrote this last night, in response to a writing prompt. The suggestion was to close my eyes and ask for a single image - and whatever it was, to write it out, and see where the writing takes me...this is what came to me.....


The skin on her back, and the back of her neck is tanned, supple and warm. I will touch her there, my fingers will glide gently across her shoulders, butterflies on silk. The hair at the nape of her neck is short, beginning to lose the blonde she dyed it months ago. What if my hand rests there? What if I could follow the muscles in her upper back with my lips, trace the lines of her vertebrae slowly, in as many ways as I can think of? I will end my journey with the tattoo on her lower back, gently trace each line three times, with fingers, lips, and then tongue. She might shiver, but I would warm her. Maybe she will throw her head back,reaching for me, vainly reaching, because I have not finished yet, not discovered toe, calf, ankle, round of hip that hides beneath the blanket. Fingertips. And movement. I used to sing in a church choir, and I remember how we once gathered outside before an evening performance. It was early summer, and my dress was ankle-long but fluid against my legs as the breeze lifted the cotton and gently pulled it back into place. I took deep breaths, prepared for singing by drawing oxygen deep into my body, filling my core with air and blood and sound. Only when I have taken my singing breath, belly-full from esophagus to diaphragm, only then can I lie with you face to face.