Tracing in the Dark

I am a fine ribbon unravelled.

I follow the curves of a woman. Defining her sultry shape without revealing any real anatomy. There is only one silhouette that can beckon in the dark, a tenebristic sliver, delivering a lifetime of promises with a coastline of enticement, whilst flying at night and willing to cross borders.

Behind closed doors.

I am a fine ribbon of paintbrush bristles, dipped in unrequited inks. I spill over her shoulder, swell out a gentle arc at the periphery of her breast, then return to dip back in at her waist, a speckled hint of belly chain glittering here and there to solemnize her center of gravity. I flare wider then again at her hip--the true gift from God Almighty--only to dip back in again and fall to the floor.

She is beautiful because darkness makes the perfect airbrush. But it is the artist who succeeds in painting her inner beauty. Obscured in the shadows, but there for one who knows how to look. That's why it's art.