During the Summer I bought a bonsai plant. Within the dingy bowels of IKEA on a plinth with its siblings, it demanded my attention. Amidst a desolate forest of tangled and warped trunks I saw a figure worthy of a reclining Modigliani. Gustave Klimt could not have captured the sensuality of the gait that I gazed upon. I instantly became an admirer, and now willingly care for a living, breathing sculpture. When I first set eyes upon the beauty, I thought this:



You strode towards me on thoroughbred pins. No curtsey for you. Your contoured swells pursued me as I passed, and murmured words to my aroused senses.

Quivering, you breathed. Encompassing. Engulfing.

I swiftly caught the ridiculousness of my thoughts. It is just a plant. Yet those curves had transported me. Not a bark-strafed stem, but slender waist and silken thighs greeted me. I say thighs, but such a base word does those heavenly elipses a great disservice.

Why was I so moved?  Did it evoke some long lost glance from a leman, her hand extended like an odialisque seeking balance? Or perhaps something more voluptuous. My hand traced lightly, drawing forth an intake of breath with the lightest of touch…

Who knows. I am still besotted, and it is with pleasure that I tend my mysterious visitor daily, and am taken back to pedestaled beauties who held me in their thrall; they with feet firmly planted, and I a penitent worshipper kneeling.

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