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Shortage of Breath

The dream of Thomas still clings to the edges of my consciousness, a vivid haunting that left me gasping for air the moment I broke the surface of sleep. While lost in that subconscious encounter, my breathing grew shallow and frantic, mimicking the tiny, staccato inhalations of a mouse as if my lungs had suddenly lost their capacity for depth.  The air became a scarce luxury I couldn't quite reach within the confines of the dream, and the suffocating pressure of those minute, rapid breaths eventually forced my eyes open in a desperate bid for survival. Now, I am left in the quiet dark, my chest heaving to reclaim the oxygen I lost, while the memory of Thomas lingers in the heavy, still air of the room.
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Burgundy

In ruby-hued satin, she pirouettes alone,
Her form a silhouette against the tone
Of evening's blush, where shadows softly play,
Amidst the burgundy that wraps her frame at bay.

With every step, the fabric billows wide,
A skirt of old-money elegance inside,
Yet her bare skin glistens like polished stone,
Ethereal, untainted, utterly her own.

Her arms, entwined, create a pose of grace,
A Botticelli vision in a modern space,
As if the nymphs of ancient lore had come,
To dance and twirl, unbound by mortal thumb.

Time stands still in this suspended scene,
Where art and life entwine, a sanguine dream,
Of freedom's fleeting nature and its hold,
On hearts that beat within a living mold.

She is a vision born of color, light,
And the intoxicating thrill of unbridled might,
A fleeting moment preserved in embered thought,
Of a woman bold, in radiance untaught.

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