Promised Land

I want to write a story but where do I begin, is it in your black heart in the epicentre of sin? A dark haired stranger carved from six feet of chalk, hair flowing like Snow White with all the chirpse and talk. He invites me to his world for a temporary we-could-be-two, the longitude and latitude of consenting nonsensical curfew.

This modern day fairytale set in a forest of concrete, glass and light, he spins me round in a waltzing dance in the middle of the city night. He’s wanting, persuasive, his passion dazzles under a diamond-freckled sky. He dizzies me with compliments, catching me by surprise. He brazenly holds steadfast, the blatant rolling of my eyes.  It’s not happening vampire, it’s way past my bedtime. Take your midnight hunger, wonder, neck bites and all of yours.

You pursue me with your modern art of chivalry, boarding available edges and platforms. Those short minutes you stretched, lengthened, testing the efficacy of time. You cast a sublime deliverance, a deliberate ploy to vanquish my shy. You submerge me with infinite presses and sparkling glass slipper words, each a delicate kiss moulded into my mind’s own world. Could you be king and Sir Lancelot o childish dream of mine, I take in your disarming smiles and your aura farming lines, and against all temptation and wild abandon, I float on marshmallows believing you for the first time.