The Nectar of a Dream

Krysten sat on the edge of the swimming pool, in her blue and white swimsuit, long dark hair loose and free.

She smiled mischievously, a flash in her bright eyes, as if I were her boyfriend, these pictures just for us.

A rich friend of her’s place, a Saturday he was away, modeling shots for Grand Tetons’ calendar girl contest.

She sold the desire and connection, splashing her feet in the water, lounging on the diving board, come hither looks.

I captured it, the industrious bee, collecting the pollen of the moment, the nectar of a dream.

And it blossomed, bright and colorful in the sun, in the flower of artifice, the illusion of something true.

The summer afternoon fading, a storm darkening the blue sky, I told her her photos would be ready Tuesday.

She smiled, put on t-shirt and shorts over her swimsuit, cheap flip flops on her thin, pale feet.

Then I watched her go, another impossible crush, another star whose light was bright, but gave no warmth.

I packed my gear in the car, sat in the driver’s seat, listening to music sung in an Enochian tongue, and dream of her.








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