Bruised Velvet

There

Where the book had sat open

On the settee

For some time

At a critical point in the story

The straight edges

Of it’s alkaline paper pages

Pressing into the

Soft cotton pile

Of the cushion

Turning the dijon dye

Darker

There

There

Where the organic peach

Rested

On the yellowed maple wood

Of the butcher block table

It’s weight 

Giving into gravity

Submissively

Softening the firm white flesh

And delicate fur

Ripening

There

There

Where she quietly turned

In the disheveled bed

The outline of a lost nickel

That fell from someone’s pocket

Pressed rosey into the tightly loomed hide

Of her perfect ass

There