She Was a Good Mote

A good mote, something to imagine upon with sin in mind. Near strangers in the same office, clothed only by levels and walls. From two floors up she let her dark hair down. Hour after hour he running fingers through strands, twisting ropes of sensuality. A married mote, a thought made flesh that grew too large for eyes. A bad mote, a succubus in the den of being, a succulence of dark desires. Time-worn, and weary it waned, it cooled leaving only residuals, flavors good and bad. A clearer youth un-imagined her utterly out, deleted that mote, gone and forgot forever, until now.