The idyll of a loose thread

I hiked up her skirt.
I hiked my hand up her stockings.
They were black, those stockings.
Her legs were spread:
sweet, spread flesh
and I am no liar.
If you'd condescended to feel her,
spread like that,
or knew her game,
you'd never lie either.

Let it be our common truth.

So. I hiked up her lovely skirt
and admired the fact
that such loveliness
has no need for words:
be they words of praise,
or complimentary words
or remarkably, nasty words,
with their exaggerated syllables,
expressing delinquency
through this noxious idyll.

The idyll of a loose thread.

Black thread, of course,
and the knowing surrender of a hiked skirt.
What else?
With no chance
of any other choices to lean on,
accept or acknowledge anything,
other than the fact
I lean on all of this,
I lean on her,
I use her.

And she uses me. Quid pro quo.

When her skirt flutters
against my hand,
it is a useless flag of surrender;
it is an entreaty
or, rather, a treaty of words:
words!
They can never give her up
or return her to me,
just as she was before
I hiked up her skirt.