DISCLAIMER: Bad Girls is the property of Shed productions, this poem depicts a loving relationship between women...okay, disclaimer done.
NOTE: This poetic version of my short story is all down to my beta Steff, who came up with the idea and worked out how to set it out, as I'm hopeless with all things poetic. So thanks again Steff.
For years I waited for this moment, when she'd be before me, open and honest with her love.
Yet still, as she takes me in her arms, kisses me,
whispers words of passion in my ear. Still she has not told me she loves me.
I could ask, force the issue as I did once before
but then her words seemed to foreshadow the end.
Or what I thought for a long time was the end.
So I won't ask, can't ask.
If passions were a guide to one's feelings I'd know she loves me,
her kisses are hot and demanding. No shame about our closeness now,
no attempt to block the eyes of others from our entwined bodies.
But still she does not utter the words I so long to hear.
I would speak first but I cannot. Not this time.
This time she has to be the one, has to risk a little of her heart as I so often risked mine.
If not, then what is the point?
I'm not with her just through need, at least not just the needs of the flesh.
I'm standing here with her now because I love her.
If she's not here for the same reasons then I'd rather we end things now, before my heart grows warm and content with the feel of her.
Before it can be shattered against an unkind word or deed.
Her hands touch my face, the feel of them sending shock waves of desire throughout my body.
Her touch is sure, confident. Not the almost shy caresses of our last time together.
What, I wonder, does that signify?
The acceptance of her feelings or merely the burning of her desire? Not that I can wonder for long.
My need to touch and be touched by her is too strong. Too overwhelming.
I could so easily lose myself in her touch. In the wanting of her.
I resist. I pull back to search her fevered eyes.
They are hungry with desire that is obvious.
But are they also filled with love? God, I wish I knew.
I wish she would tell me.
"Nikki?" With my name comes a look of uncertainty, her passion cooling in a moment of concern.
I hate to see that look, that doubt.
My arms are around her once more, my lips pressed to her skin.
I was a fool to think I could ever give her up, even if she doesn't love me, I know I could never turn away.
She is my world.
I am lost once again in the feel of her.
The pounding of my heart drowning out the sounds of the city streets.
The faint smell of her perfume consuming my senses as her touch sets my body on fire.
All the distance and calm I tried so hard to project during my time inside has collapsed against the first wave of her attack.
The first wave of her desire.
I am lost in her.
She pulls away. Her head lowered, so I can no longer see her eyes.
Lips still wet with my kisses become suddenly still.
My heart clenches. I feel dizzy, my legs not longer able to withstand my weight,
as I wait for her rejection.
Wait for the end of the happiness I knew was too good to be true.
"Nikki," her eyes search out mine but there is no comfort in them, only more confusion.
It is as if she is scared of me, or perhaps just scared of what I might say
or do when she eventually speaks.
I want to tell her that no matter how she hurts me, I could never return the pain.
My love would not allow it. At last I see it, a glimpse of her usual bravery,
a glimpse of the woman I fell in love with that first day I challenged her on the wing.
"Nikki, I love you."
My world is suddenly complete. I am now truly free. "And I love you Helen."
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