parallaxis

the key to ellen

ellen asks for the key of your number four dance studio;

she says you must bring it back, please. this afternoon still.

she says it in a husky and quiet tone. very husky. very softly.

it makes me want to fall asleep. and her consonants sound like

huge squares of heavy, salted butter falling into flour, while her esses are

rounded but clear like a long and thin and very friendly female snake;

no lisping though. just husky, like she has mild and sexy laryngitis.

her dresses are tight, like snakeskin before the shed and her secure

voluptuosities are breathtaking and serious. they sit, firmly attached and

anchored to her being. in front and at her back. like her hair that comes

in every style there is; tall formal hoity toity or big hair at ease. pony askew

or afro halo. ellen is darkest chocolate. warm and strong. like coffee. like

a summer evening after dusk when the moon, like the loopy-large whites

of her eyes, comes out to play.

if you hand me the key, i can give it to ellen...