The smell of his aftershave, his looks and wit,
the chemistry, passion, charisma and fit
of her putative lover had gained such renown
that his legend was spoken all over the town.

Through her bedroom window he climbed after dark
as she stilled her dad’s dogs–their bite and their bark.
With scraps of her dinner she lured them away
as her lover sneaked into the bedroom where they

would make love to the music that swelled on the breeze
of her imagination, there on her knees
playing out that wild scene in her hopes and her dreams,
through want of reality, stretched to extremes.

No passion, no music, no lover’s embrace,
her only caresses, the moon on her face
as it slowly rises, extending its beams,
and creeps through the window to enter her dreams.

Prompts today are the bedroom window, music, wit, putative and smell.

5 thoughts on “Tryst

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