The Boy

It was a sunny day when I happened upon a pretty boy playing a flute by the river. I listened to his music for a while, watching the delicate shape of his smile as it fluctuated between concentration and ecstasy. His music was primitive, but his passion was beautifully innocent. 

I appeared before him, the shining image of a woman, and kissed his lips. After, he smiled a solid smile. It was a little less delicate but just as sweet. 

I want him to hold me, 
because he always holds her. 

Maybe his arms would be nice. 
Solid. 

I am supposed to want the boy who plays his flute by the river. I am supposed to want more than his arms and his sweet smile. But my shining womanhood is just too bright. He is warm, but lacks Marylin Manroe’s luster.  

I want to laugh with him, to dance with him. I want to talk our way around each other in clever curves. I want to love him.