We met on the steps of the Opera Bastille you and I,
I paused in admiration before you noticed me,
You were dressed all in black – sleek and willowy,
Our eyes met, a smile crossed your face with a blush,
My eyes transfixed upon you I felt strikingly underdressed,
I’d had a haircut, and my beard neatly trimmed,
I’d shopped all afternoon, dressed just how you liked,
I made my way up the stairs to meet your gazing eyes,
“You’re lovely,” I whispered with a quick kiss of your cheek,
You grow nervously flushed, nearly a dark Crimson,
I take your hands in my own giving them a tight squeeze,
Your lips part in silence as if you wish to say something,
Longingly you gaze into my eyes pulling me closer to you,
You wear the black leather choker I so adore,
Matched with your Victorian black lace gloves,
Your lips brush my own, I deeply inhale your breath,
“Come my dear you’re all mine tonight,” you deviously grin,
You take my right hand in yours’ leading me down the stairs,
Your nervous squeezes of my hand echo your excitement,
We wind through the crowds bustling outside the bars and clubs,
You pull me into a tiny club and down into the basement,
Winding your way to a reserved table in the corner,
You motion to a waitress placing our order,
I smile curious of the whole evening will be so orchestrated,
I hardly notice the waitress return as I gaze into your eyes,
“I’ve been planning this night all week,” you blush shyly,
Our lips meet in a more intimate embrace,
My heart races at the brush of your fingers over my knee.

~ Mark Bere Peterson (2011)

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