The Poet Pt. 02

"Something wrong, dear?" she said.

Blake said nothing--he just swallowed hard.

"Blake, what's the matter?" she persisted.

All of a sudden his face crumpled and he threw himself on top of her, his face buried in her chest. Then he burst into tears.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" she exclaimed. "What is it?"

Blake couldn't have answered. He didn't know why this unexpected intimacy with a girl he hardly knew had affected him so much. There was something so delicate, so wistful, so heartrendingly tender about this creature that he didn't think he could ever separate from her. He cried his eyes out onto her breasts, holding her so tightly around the back that she had trouble breathing.

Lorna, stroking his head in an instinctively maternal manner, was full of inexpressible emotions herself. This strange, tormented man had affected her too, and not just physically. The last thing she'd expected, when she'd gone to bed that night, was to have a guy make love to her so intensely and profess his love to her. Things like that didn't happen! And yet, it seemed so right, so perfect. She was alarmed and saddened that he was feeling so bad, but realized that he just had to express his emotions in this way.

After all, he was a poet. Poets are emotional, aren't they?

After what seemed an eternity, and with a cascade of tears that bedewed her bosom (another first for her, she reflected), Blake seemed to get over his crying jag and, with a few sniffles, settled down to sleep--right where he was, his face between her breasts, as if they could shield him from the wretchedness of the world. She was comfortable enough in this position, even though Blake's two emissions were oozing out of her and making wet spots on the bed. But she didn't mind, and pretty soon both of them were asleep.