deepundergroundpoetry.com
Beautiful Patterns #4 in Kill Series
She was lovely walking in the morning sun. I noted her calm expression as she sipped her medium latte, ordered the same as every other morning.
She took a few quick steps toward seagulls and laughed as they scattered. She was up before her lover. He still basked in the memories of their previous night, enjoyed at the expense of her husband.
Patterns are dangerous. These lovers always met at the same beach house two hours after her husband’s flight to DC. The next morning, she always rose before her lover and walked this beach, sipping her latte.
She was always beautiful in one of several sheer skirts and tops. On this morning she wore white. She always walked south from the beach house to feel the morning sun on her left side before stripping and wading into the water. Then she dried from the sun on her walk back to the beach house where the two would make love again.
I pictured her lover touching himself as he woke from his dreamy sleep, still smelling her on his fingers. He must have relished in the memory of her tender kisses as their bodies labored to satisfy their longings. He remembered the moment he came inside her and felt a warm firmness growing in his hand as he looked at the clock in anticipation of her return.
Yes, patterns are dangerous things. Any crime expert will tell you that repeated actions put you at risk. And so, this young lady was at risk but felt no fear as she began her walk back to the beach house.
When flesh is struck by something so unforgiving, perfected over centuries of warfare, it fails without poetry. There is nothing aesthetically pleasing in that instant when so much of what makes her beautiful is stripped away. All emotions, passions, and lusts that filled her mind and connecting nerves disappeared in a violent flash, leaving only a physical shell lying awkwardly on the sand, now absent of seagulls.
I write nothing of this on the completed contract, only noting that the target was neutralized as my client wished.
She took a few quick steps toward seagulls and laughed as they scattered. She was up before her lover. He still basked in the memories of their previous night, enjoyed at the expense of her husband.
Patterns are dangerous. These lovers always met at the same beach house two hours after her husband’s flight to DC. The next morning, she always rose before her lover and walked this beach, sipping her latte.
She was always beautiful in one of several sheer skirts and tops. On this morning she wore white. She always walked south from the beach house to feel the morning sun on her left side before stripping and wading into the water. Then she dried from the sun on her walk back to the beach house where the two would make love again.
I pictured her lover touching himself as he woke from his dreamy sleep, still smelling her on his fingers. He must have relished in the memory of her tender kisses as their bodies labored to satisfy their longings. He remembered the moment he came inside her and felt a warm firmness growing in his hand as he looked at the clock in anticipation of her return.
Yes, patterns are dangerous things. Any crime expert will tell you that repeated actions put you at risk. And so, this young lady was at risk but felt no fear as she began her walk back to the beach house.
When flesh is struck by something so unforgiving, perfected over centuries of warfare, it fails without poetry. There is nothing aesthetically pleasing in that instant when so much of what makes her beautiful is stripped away. All emotions, passions, and lusts that filled her mind and connecting nerves disappeared in a violent flash, leaving only a physical shell lying awkwardly on the sand, now absent of seagulls.
I write nothing of this on the completed contract, only noting that the target was neutralized as my client wished.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 2
reading list entries 1
comments 3
reads 535
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.