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♦dirty laundry•

He was surprised how she exited the pile of old socks untarnished. 
Clean. 
Her back still exhaled spices, her shoulders were a garden of jasmine.

And how he savored jasmine. 

He was a smelly trap melded with the pile: a cavernous creature. 
With confident admiration he followed her every gesture. 
The articulation of her wrists and the bending of her elbows.  

Acute to obtuse, concave to convex,  metamorphic geometry for the ardent academic.

There she stood, at the edge of the room, dressed in light from the navel up, wearing shade as a clear skirt. 
Her body was a metaphor for his routine; the nights in trance and the mornings asleep. 

He stalked her with fierce curiosity.

From behind the lips of worn clothes,  naked as a tongue, his arms rolled out of the fabric lips like the tip of a reptile's tongue, 
welcoming the scent of his prey. 

Stood there seemingly untouched, the main course of the day. To dine twice and again.