Five Ounces of Life

She was a delightful fantasy that burned in him as bright as her phoenix red hair.

She was an elegant balance of beautiful and sultry,

Aphrodite in black lace.

She was five ounces of life poured into a Martini glass,

shaken not stirred.

Her irises were tinged with a tentative adventurism that hypnotized and seduced,

drawing him in like a magnet.

Her voluptuous lips had the potential to warm the iciest of hearts

and raise King Tut from the dead.

Her lips matched the pallor of the wine that coated them.

He imagined how they would feel.

They were probably as soft and rich as cherries.

Her skin looked like satin for the coarsest of souls.

She when she sat alone in bed, curled up with a Bukowski novel,

he wished to curl up with her and explore every inch of her mind.

When she was sad and lonely, she deserved a blanket as gentle as her skin.

He would sit there at the end of a rainy day alone,

wondering if her full lips pouted in her sleep

and if they felt as exquisite when the lipstick rubbed off.

He pondered if her lips trembled when she cried.

What did her eyes look like when her tears dried and someone lifted her chin?

She was the kind of woman who you couldn't imagine being lonesome.

Would he ever spend quality time with this dream goddess?

He didn't know.

All he knew was that a fine woman deserved fine attention.