Scheherazade

When the raindrops shimmered in the flash of lightnings, her eyes were telling me a story about the desert. I looked at the fine water curtains that were whiffing the night. “You’ve changed the perfume, haven’t you? It’s a nice lilac fragrance.” “That bottle has a light purple ribbon…I guess it could be lilac.” Somehow the sweet voice of that girl singing soft jazz there, in the night, was not exactly the music of your story, nor the music of your scent. That whole setting should have been immersed into the sensual yumeji’s theme. To blend into the sharp image of crystal glass suddenly blossomed into one thousand and one pieces, revealing the slow motioned choreography of wine embracing the air. To caress your eyes shining and more beautiful than ever, your face line when you looked intensely. To bond with your lips that naturally touched the crystal then arched in smile. You may have caused millions of small transparent butterflies to hit the nerves of that smooth dark skin. Fingers and low-pitched sound rolling down the spine. Harmonic notes. Tenderness. I could have seen that osmotically hacking into your unspoken emotions that extended outwards for a very short time.

Photo:http://desert-winds.deviantart.com/art/Desert-Moon-307873723