His eyes lifted, smoldering in my direction,
his angular face that of marbled perfection.
His square chin dipped in a trimmed, black goatee.
His pointed eyebrows arched mischievously.
May I be of assistance? he smokily purred,
My breath faltered as I searched for the word.
Silver metal ornated his brow, tongue and lip,
his thick, baggy jeans hung low on his hip.
He sauntered toward me, like a haze of heat,
his dark hair pulled back, in a ponytail neat.
I nodded and shakily gave him my list,
he seemed to smirk and his chuckle hissed.
His skin was smooth, toned dark, blemish-free,
As he thumbed through the bookshelf gracefully.
When he reached for my book, up crept his shirt,
and I knew that I oughtn’t, but what could it hurt?
So I peeked at his stomach, the red roses inked there,
and said Those are pretty when I should have said prayer.
Handing me my book, features slightly askew,
walking ’round my left shoulder, he whispered So are you.
Breath of cinnamon lingered as he eased ahead,
even his gait was taboo, a dance for the wicked.
The air around me grew colder as he got farther away.
I wanted to follow this fallen angel, even if led astray.
I stood stunned in the aisle, thoughts of fingertips on his skin.
They say idle hands are the devil’s favorite sin.
His mouth was still curved up in forbidden temptation,
when I went to the front desk to request application.