the feel of the razor at it scrapes across my head, terrforming it into a smooth uninhabitable place for the next few days

she used to stand in the doorway and watch as i plied my craft, first with the grain, then the second against it

now as i shave it i find myself looking behind me for her familiar sillouette

it was a guarantee of sex when i pulled out the ivory handled razor, the sound of running it against the leather belt sent her into a fit of need

my perfectly smooth head and somewhat scratchy cheeks between her soft, supple thighs like a shot of whiskey and a cigar

now it felt like a waste everytime i shaved

standing alone in the shower as the water runs down into my eyes and not feeling her hands on my scalp

soaping up and washing her back, her full heavy breasts

she had two walks

one she used to get from a to b

the other she used when she knew i was watching

the first was normal, the typical movement of basic steps

the second was a thing of beauty, an artful sway that kept my eyes firmly drawn, a type of sway better poets than me could spend a thousand years trying to describe and only fail to find that right combination of words

that cocky swagger that said she knew exactly where my eyes were

one that begged for my hands to be there as well

the kind of walk that made married men sweat and holy men turn to a life of sin

i shaved my head in front of her the same way she walked in front of me

there was a promise of very bad things done in a very good way to come

the kind of hunger you get when you know dinner is almost ready

how you can hold your bladder until the keys jangle in the lock and then it is a race to the restroom

we made a good couple on the bed, a bad couple when it came to sharing, a horrible couple when it came to talking

but she was the matisse of one foot in front of the other

and i am the van gogh with a razor