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Zorro
His eyes are more gray than blue.
More silver than hazel.
More striking than anything I’ve seen.
With alarming streaks of green.
His hands work magic from afar.
His strong arms wrap around me,
They squeeze and steal my breath-
He doesn’t even have to cross the room to where I stand.
Zorro- It’s not his name.
Not his “real” name, anyway.
But for now, that’s what we’ll call him.
Him- with his intensity, his silent call, his shaking steady touch.
One hard look is like a chilling caress,
A sudden shiver down my spine.
And yet I’ve never felt his skin against mine.
My heartbeat has never raced against his.
I’ve never felt his pulse in my veins.
Is he my forbidden fruit?
Or a pleasant dream to be pursued?
Or a distant memory of a wondrous, exotic past?
Who is he; this new temptation,
This dangerous angel,
This beautiful disaster with the stern, gray eyes and sensual lips?
Zorro- the dark figure in my dreams.
The rock hard, faceless body pressed against me in the night, but not ever really there at all.
He’s the suffering.
The bright light among the children of pain.
The ease that comes too late for those who’ve already been slain.
Is it too late for me?
I wonder; has he come for me?
Are there dirty, sweaty, rumpled wings beneath the tight-fit shirts I so wish to pull over his head?
Is he sent as a punishment?
A lesson?
A gift?
Was he sent to me at all?
Perhaps I’ve looked upon someone else’s light.
Perhaps I’ve set my sights too high.
Or not high enough.
Or not high at all.
Maybe I’m not meant to know.
And still I wonder.
Will he ever press his hands hard against my tired flesh,
Making it difficult to think or catch my breath?
Will he entrap me beneath him, unable to break our gaze as our hearts quicken and our lips quiver with need?
Will he ever hold my hand, or wrap me in his warmth beside a fire, or share even an ounce of my desire?
Questions unanswered and questions which have yet to be asked.
Questions redundant in comparison to my unfortunate past.
And the things he doesn’t know;
Like the men,
The pain,
The thoughts in my head
When he’s too close or not nearly close enough.
When he lifts my chin, not knowing how hard it is
Not to close the solemn gap between my mouth and his.
Doesn’t he know?
Doesn’t he notice my pathetic inability to look into those striking gray-green eyes?
Doesn’t he realize?
I’ve never been one to go weak in the knees.
So why can’t he see his apparent effect on me?
Maybe he doesn’t want to; maybe he’s just naïve.
I unbutton my blouse so that he might see the unhealthy banging of my rambunctious heart.
But he only sees the color of my skin; the perfection-lacking quality he finds himself sinking in.
I wish I had his power.
I wish I could read his thoughts.
I wish I knew his taste.
He’d be my favorite smell.
My favorite colors, texture, wonder.
Zorro- That perfect shade of gray.
Like when early morning breaks and turns to day.
And color streaks across the sky
That’s the color of his eyes.
Like right before the fog dies.
Fog- the perfect name for his special iris.
They’re a foggy morning,
I get lost in the mist of his gaze
I’ll study him like a book until I know every chapter by memory, by heart.
And then I’ll tear it apart
And put him back together again.
I’m in the business of mixing sweat and tears and rhythm
And putting it all together
For the perfect sleeping pill
Zorro- A sickness, and don’t you know that I’m ill.
Zorro- The perfect shade of gray
The perfect excuse to believe in “Someday”
Zorro… There goes my hero.
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