Somewhere, a love song. Under cotton sheets, a woman red

As velvet dreams about fantasies & realities,

Pillow talk in quiet whispers & longing. Woman

Becomes velveteen petals; demur moorings rise, beg archaic

Soft fluttering of moans, at beckons touch, at least

Fingertips arouse a moment or two. Don't lick the dragon's breath.

Dragon's are what they are. They know how to feast.

Swallow every morsel. Swallow a soul whole. Wicked day to be a

Dragon tint of a man uncovered. But here, not fantasy

nor reality, woman won't forget their scorn

stained of sanguine. Here, there there is no physiatrist for

mistaken choices or a guidebook on relationships, no magic potion.

If love songs, it'd be dragon's breath. Please don't name

us insecure, call us hopeful dreamers in a Harlequin romance novel.

We love deeply when given the opportunity.

We give our reassurance, tether our hearts to love & commit.

And this is what we want; come dusk of morning

After waking, we tame the dragon's breath.

©Linda J. Wolff