Fifty shades of Monotony

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Thursday.

Washing rests listlessly in the sink

attracting drone of flies, kamikaze bombing

popping opalescent bubbles laying

languidly on cold, cold water.

*

Weary eyed,

mis-shapen legging clad rock and roll mother

switches off the click click clicking light,

tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

*

She does not blush as his eyes meet hers,

the contract they exchanged was nul and void

penetrated to her core, the second

his serene azure gaze undressed her,

saw beneath the rolling stones shirt

gone grey with wear.

*

Beneath her clothes,

liberated in cushion like beauty

battle scarred and tiger striped,

he does not see,

but leaves his lips to trace

the map of her life.

*

In his eyes, she is Diana

and for every night spent

savouring her wine,

relishing her voice,

he is

complete.

This was written as a response to falling asleep in the middle of Fifty shades of grey. Guys, sometimes you don’t know how precious something is until it’s no longer there. Who needs Grey when I have Jon Snow. So :)

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