Droplets of early morning dew kissed the fragile strands of her daily ritual. Day after day, I'd watch intently as she created her masterpieces. I admired her fervor, her attention to the finest of details.
Sunlight, warm and fragrant, also witnessed her labor from above. I used to be jealous of its intrusion and never wanted to share her but no longer.
I realize now we were always alone, this weaver and I.
Our journey together would end soon and she would move on to another, her memory of my devotion fading before the day was over.
I loved yet hated her for it.
Though she hadn't yet begun to touch me, the hot, sticky feel of her rising hunger pumped a ribbon of terror through my veins. As if she sensed my hidden turbulence, the shade of my death paused as I lay in a frustrated tangle.
Several eyes, fathomless pools of obsidian, caressed me gently while she asked.
"Are you comfortable?"
Relieved to know she still cared that much for me, I began to weep.
"Very much so."
She leaned in close, the breath of her whisper thrilling me one last time.
"Then let us begin."
Her beautiful smile was the last thing I remembered...
© Copyright 2012 by Ren Thompson July 18, 20123Word Wednesday: Feel, Shade, Tangle