Her gaze was the perfect storyteller. There she was humming the - TopicsExpress

Her gaze was the perfect storyteller. There she was humming the negro spirituals. She was sitting across from me eyes close, her beauty radiant as the sun illuminated the spaces between our silences. Her body whipped with lashes keeps improvising on the drums of my feelings. Her expressive hairstyle could not be conquered. She would mimic the master’s wigs as if hers had voices that could not be tamed. She was the perfume of liberty: The equal of any spirit. Her essence was defiantly beautiful. She was the sight of a horizon that never fades, a window that our ancestors could shine through. I could feel her embraces miles away; her love had groomed me into an addict. Her scars carve in stones reminded me that love is an art tattooed in everyone’s chest. Her smile could overpower all my strength. Camping by the fire outside, her gaze was the perfect storyteller. There she was pleasuring the revolutionary consciousness of liberty. Ricardo Toussaint.

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