The scarlet woman

Everything about her is lipstick. Lipstick on her empty champagne glass, on my white collar, on the cigarette lying in the glass ashtray by the lounge. It reminds me of her; that red hue. Every time I see a scarlet lip or a red rimmed coffee cup she pervades my mind. I can't get her out.

The first time I met her I fell in love. Or in lust, rather. It's impossible to love a woman with such confidence, such elegance. Her evasive nature keeps a man's fiery heart from clinging to her stone one. I don't think she could love either; she's too distant. There's a barrier between her world and ours, preventing us from ever entering one another's hearts.

To be with her is a whirlpool of desire. Each time she touches me, and every time she doesn't, a fire burns deep within my soul and I melt into a pool on her marble floor. Even her presence sends shivers down my spine, and I'm captivated. Her ebony locks form a snare around my blackened heart, and I long for the day her arms will bear the same tightness around my neck.

We do touch, of course, but never with the wholehearted affection I crave. Always in lust, never in love. Passion entraps us, as her red lips do my mouth. For a while I truly believe there may be a hint of tenderness in our embrace. Of course, there never is, for she is a woman of mystique, and such a trait could never be coupled with affection. Our pairing the the work of pure chance, or so I always thought. I've come to believe there is a reason more sinister, though what that is, is far past me. One day I may uncover the intentions behind her cold lips and trembling thighs, but for now I am blind.

I often wonder if there is another man. For such a beautiful and alluring woman, there must be. I always fall back to the idea that there isn't, although I'm aware that's a culprit of wishful thinking. My hopeful and trusting mind is all that keeps us together, and it fueled my initial attraction to her. When I saw her long legs and scarlet lips, rounded in a seductive chuckle, it was impossible for me to deter my eyes, and the second she took a step in my direction, the hope that she was unattached to a man denied any rational reasoning.

Since then we've been an item. Me full of regard to her blood red lips and apathetic attitude, her to my naivety. One day it may be real, but for now I'm comfortable with the prospect. Our lust is a fire, our love a facade. Until I die I will be devoted to her, while she will remain forever uncaring for me. And that is okay, for I never asked for her love; only for her time and the touch of her vermilion lips.