Strand of Hair

It was a night that he'd never forget…

The time was a little after midnight,
On the top level of a hotel suite in the heart of NYC.
Surrounded by just four walls
And one window that allows the Moon shone without interruption,
He peels the blanket off the bed
Just enough for him to get under.
The night is a loud one,
As it always is.
With his eyes to the ceiling,
His back on the mattress,
He dwells on where his life is.
Successful executive of a huge corporation
But no one to embrace during nights like these.
He glances to the lonely pillow beside him,
Furthermore digging himself a forlorn grave.
Fed up with his own thoughts,
He retires it for the night.
A skill he learned to do exactly for nights like these.
His eyes bear burden and grow tiresome.
Without a hint of being awake or in a state of dreams,
He rouses to a hand upon his abdomen.
Eyes still shut; he feels a woman caress him lovingly.
His eyes open to see a lady so beautiful,
Yet, so remote in recognition-
Blind Passion-
Her womanly fingers continue to move about.
Lost in the moment, his mouth finds hers.
Her lips press back delicately in return.
His left hand holds her chin stationary to his face,
His right hand plays about in her brunette-flavored hair.
The sheet sculpts their figure artistically as they move about.
With their breaths becoming heavier with the passing night,
She grabs his hand and slowly guides it down her abdomen.
His hand is then left to fend on its own when it reaches her pelvis.
Her moans are subtleties rich with depth.
Nails prick his back gently.
His grimaces are pain rich with pleasure.
The pillows under them are knocked to the floor
As they contort their bodies to a different position.
Her atop,
Him below.
Her hands lie upon his chest.
The sheets barely cover her rear.
Her back arches as he enters.
The moonlight illuminates her exclusively-
Moonlight Love-
Their bodies rock back and forth.
The momentum hums a sensual lullaby
And rocks them both to sleep.
He embraces her in his arms,
As she sleeps soundlessly on top of him.
His eyes bear burden and grow tiresome.
He rouses out of unconsciousness.
Alert to all of that has happened the previous night;
Or what he thought had occurred.
He feels for the lonely pillow.
It is what it is.
As is the pillow he laid upon.
Not on the floor where it fell the previous night;
Or what he thought had occurred.
He stares about the room.
Everything is in order.
Nothing is out of order.
The sun shone in his eyes from the only window in the room.
He lies back down,
Realizing he was fooled by his overly imaginative dream
Stemming from his late-night desires of a companion.
He glances again at the pillow beside him,
Studying it attentively.
A long Strand of Hair lies upon the pillow,
Brunette-flavored…

"Their eyes are more attracted to the story, Than they are to the man"