Her

I see her through a window, through a canvas, through the eyes of her lovers. She is elegant and desperate. She holds tightly to her heart until it breaks free from her grasp. She’s too proud to run after it. Her gaze is defiant, her face unsmiling studying you for a trace of honor, authenticity, hope. She is guarded. Her body flirts with you, legs splayed provocatively in candlelight, hair falling around her breasts. Naked and guarded all at once. Hips curve in soft brush strokes, suggesting skin soft to the touch of lips. She leans back on her right palm as if she is awaiting your arrival. Calm as a heavy conch shell, she is a secret you think you know. Dark flashing eyes dare you to wonder about the spirit behind them, the thoughts masked by her exposed physique. She’s too much. Desired, celebrated even, alone. The canvas hosts no other. Candle flames blow and beckon, dancing around a moment frozen by oil paint. Mischievous, embellishing, enchanting, they illuminate her vulnerability.