Creamo

I put on combat boots
and left the house.
She put on a black mesh top
and left the house.
My boots rubbed the back of my heels
(her top rubbed the tips of her…)
Where our paths crossed but a moment,
mutually approving smiles exchanged;
I clocked that black mesh casting warped shadows over the curve of her bare, brown breasts.
Gasp!
Clench!
Drench.

With every subsequent step
my boots made mince-meat of my heels.
But without them, would she have eyed me
from the boots, up,
inviting a smile
and the lingering gaze
of a creep in sheep’s clothing?
Are blistering heels worth an
eye-full of Sunday morning perky-lating café au lait?
Raw flesh for raw flesh?
Seems like a fair price:
Pass me the quill.
Shall I sign in the damp of panties?
Or the blood of weeping heels?