just my imagination

It was all so very simple. She didn´t need poetry, she only needed his love and his caress. Once upon a time, she met a boy with black-rimmed glasses and black curly hair. He looked like a jew. A month later, by coincidence, they began to talk and she liked what she heard. From whom she heard it. And from then on began her imaginary romance. Her imagination blossomed by leaps and bounds. there were moments of ambiguity, moments of intense passion, moments of despair and depression. And they all seemed to replenish with his mere presence. they started spending more time together, she started revealing frivolously more and more of herself. She knew he wanted her. She also wanted to melt her body in his, combine their mouths. She wanted to be the words of his poetry, the image in his gaze, the haunting presence in her absence.
So she told him how much she had grown to love and desire him in eight long, short months. Long enough to measure her love, short to satiate her thoughts. She wasn´t sure when her love would wear out, but it didn´t matter. He wasn´t sure from where his next penny would emerge but the anxiety and anguish melted in her eyes. Those eyes, two black beads that perforated his heart and made him shiver helplessly. That was her effect on him. Cold shivers just like the morning breeze that was her name. She was charm, quiet tranquility in his life of unstable turbulence. But she would appear and disappear, love and be indifferent, he would respond and be silent.
She decided she wanted to hold him in bed like a child, hold him to her breasts and feel his shivers that would cause her to erupt in shrill laughs. she wanted to feel his slim body over her, his hands moving over in eloquent strokes, knowing and anticipating mastery for their love, momentary, was also eternal.