mistaken

Love is an illusion, he once read,
that anyone is different from anyone else
but behind the screen,
the way she arched her back
and moved her hips to the melodic
tin of the brass horn
was deeply convincing,
like Salome with her many veils
revealing secrets he dared not dream.
It was enough, he thought,
to have known the color,
have felt the texture
of that cloth.

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About ky

Poet. Photographer. Writer. Goddess. View all posts by ky

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