Blood by Bader A. Shehab

Her blood-red velvet dress drunk her skin, shoulder sloped at an angle cutting light in halves below halves of curvature tucked under yarns of episodes of silk, after yarns of silk. Her skin appeared to weave the fabric into worship, red blossom lips complimented blood-red footwear loosened to every harmonic step a lasting chime lost in eons of echo. Platonic quivers lapped her back, bent light at every angle with emphasis; credit to hip-length hair beyond measure of Babylon and Akkad combined, lengths that surpass constellations of three-queens, lengths of the red shifts’ limit binding all of anti-matter, lengths that seem to surpass the silk road of the central kingdom flowing between my fingers in unpredictable directions I cannot fathom, in the most intricate of ways and responses to my touch that only lure me ever so much. There is a certain stimuli to that blood-red dress of hers, that seem to shake my cells to frozen telepathy, my membrane dismantles and I’m at her mercy, she’s the huntress and I’m the hunted, she’s unmoving and yet magnetizing, every polar region I knew I hadn’t now spurred to attraction; but there was that certain one thing I didn’t see coming, those nebulae eyes of hers, sunk deep into a quasar-like mystery and my soul swallowed. Her hand reached and my body frozen, my arm reached back as though instinctive and I was pulled to depths of sternum-aching purges, niching at all my senses to let go but I was at her mercy, yet again idolizing at heaven’s, or was it hell’s most beautiful fury?

Her blood-red dress seemed to wave for light years, her hair of galactic lengths only the Milky Way could marvel about; each hair line was a journey, I reckoned, of a thousand and one years. Never acquitting reverberations of her tune of a voice that orchestrated symphonies which fine-tuned the vacuums of sound and time to heavenly perfection only gods could dream of. She spoke in Homerian epics’ tongue and only tasted the finest of wines from the vines of Dante’s Paradiso, she danced with the stars among the last of a billion and one constellations, with her dress swinging; building along the way dynasties and civilizations that flourished for thousands of years, to each would gift her fine arts, tunes and paintings to her last taste, each would succumb to her last of liking and love and she too never failed to her generous self, giving in return eternal shine and life whilst spreading for light years’ length that atomic blood-red dress intricate in every last eon and space of delicacy and angelic complexity, the same forms that were used to build the gates of heaven, I claim, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out true. In her presence the skies seemed to bleed of comet tails and clusters of galactic dusts, asteroids moored in graceful distance just far enough to orbit yet close enough to meteor-eclipse. Her touch sent me into induced comas that lasted a thousand and one nights, to every awakening I’m taken away again into sleepless dreams walking into eternal falling gravities. Descending into rabbit holes of dimensions; don’t wake me, I thought. Let me fall asleep in her mercy and die peacefully.

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