by Sparks In Shadow
I want the ninety-eight dollar dress, not the two-hundred dollar one or others in-between – all much too expensive – but the creamy, fluttery cotton lawn, sleeveless with meadow flowers blushing at the edges as if warmed by bated breath.
I yearn for the body that goes with it, not the model’s it hangs from rectangular like curtains, but round flesh and valleys of muscle inhabiting fabric, mesmerizing like sunlight glowing through the edges of my hand.
I can’t dream of this dress. But without dreaming the body becomes harder to envision, harder to work, seizing like chocolate, mishandled.