The Color Purple

By Lisabet Sarai

I dream in shades of purple.

My teeth puncture the velvet-dusted skin of a ripe plum, ripping it open to expose the golden pulp. Juice floods my mouth and drips down my chin, leaving lascivious trails of sweetness. Later, my sticky limbs will stir memories of hunger satisfied, like recollections of our afternoon couplings, stolen out of time.

I feed you livid grapes, one by one in a silly parody of decadence. You accept a dozen before you lose patience and pull me into a wine-flavored embrace. The rest scatter as the plate tips to the floor.

The buxom wench at the Renaissance Faire winked as she told you Kalamata olives were aphrodisiac. When you slipped the mauve morsels one by one into my pussy, then ate them from my oyster-scented folds, I knew she'd spoken the truth.

Purple lilacs scent the breeze in the purple April twilight. The sliver moon climbs, slicing the night open. My spirit bleeds amethyst and violet like your sparking wand. Are you watching the moon, too?

Mottled bruises stain my flesh like wine, cherished reminders where your whip kissed. They fade from mulberry to lavender and finally to ivory as our time apart lengthens. I want them back.

I dream of purple, the hue of power and passion, of maturity and madness.

I dream of you.