Kyrie suggested we go for a drive in her new 2-door BMW coupe
In the parking lot, we slipped into her bucket seats...
Kyrie took over from there.
At nearly 90 miles per hour she zipped us up to that windy edge
Known to some as Mullholland, that sinuous road running
the ridge of the Santa Monica Mountains
Where she then proceeded to pump her vehicle in and out of turns
Sometimes dropping down to 50 miles per hour, only to
immediately gun it back up to 90 again
Fast, slow, fast fast slow
Sometimes a wide turn sometimes a quick one
she preferred the tighter ones
The sharp controlled jerks,
swinging left to right before driving back to the right
Only so she could do it all over again
until after enough speed,
and enough wind,
and more distance than I had been prepared to expect
Taking me to parts of the city I rarely think of and never visit.
I heard her say...
"Hey pretty
Don't you wanna take a ride with me?
Through my world
Hey pretty
Don't you wanna kick and slide
Through my world"
I can't remember the inane things I started
babbling about then, I knew it didn't really matter,
she wasn't listening
She just yanked up on the emergency brake,
dropped her seat back,
and told me to lie on top of her
On top of those leather pants of hers, extremely expensive leather pants mind you,
her hands immediately guiding mine
over those soft, slightly oily folds
Positioning my fingers on the shiny metal tab, small and round, like a tear
Then murmuring a murmur so inaudible that even though I could feel her
lips tremble against my ear, she seemed far, far away
Pinch it, she said, which I did, lightly, until she also said pull it,
which I also did, gently parting the teeth, one at a time, down under
and beneath,
the longest unzipping of my life...
"Hey pretty
Don't you wanna take a ride with me?
Through my world
Hey pretty
Don't you wanna kick and slide
Through my world
Hey pretty
My pretty baby
Rock it through my world
Hey pretty
My pretty baby
Rock it through my world"
We never even kissed,
or looked into each other's eyes,
our lips just trespassed on those inner labyrinths hidden deep within our ears,
Filled them with the private music of wicked words
Hers in many languages, mine in the off-color of my only tongue,
until as our tones shifted and our consonants spun and squealed,
rabbled faster,
hesitated,
raced harder
Syllables soon melting into groans or moans,
finding purchase in new words,
or old words,
or made-up words
Too bad dark languages rarely survive...
Azuria St. Cloud Community Member 
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