She drops to her knees in front of the mirror,

Her hand roves across the terrain of her frame.

The hills and the valleys so flawlessly ordered,

As she tosses her head and hisses his name.

 

A sliver thin strap falls from her shoulder,

As she caresses the skin once flushed by his touch.

She arouses the image of their two bodies soldered,

And teases a yearning she cannot begrudge.

 

The reflection of woman has never been clearer,

As she unties the ribbon that unveils her gifts.

The room fills with a scent that's never been dearer,

As she stretches each muscle and her body lifts.

 

She balances herself on her voluptuous haunches,

And rocks to the rhythm of her reverie.

She jolts and bucks as the odyssey launches,

While reality makes love to her fantasy. 

 

As she lays in exhaustion in front of the mirror,

Naked and florid from her little death*.

He was never so far, but never was nearer,

And she whispers his name in a silken breath.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* La Petite Mort or "Little Death" is a French idiom or euphemism for "orgasm".