I stand at her door, wearing a hooded shroud of ink. She speaks to me from inside her goldenside garden. The doorway between us a small infinity of distance. A grey gap of frame, jamb and respect; it only swings one way.
I observe her with eyes delirious with hunger. She courts my appetite with the bravery of needed worship.

I cannot enter unless she invites me.
This deity is much too smart for that.

Yet I stand and wait with an eternity of patience.
And make the small talk of pretenses.
Parry-and-thrusting a choreographed charade.

9:09 p.m. - 2015-02-26