Cupid's Poppet

I always seem to fall for his type; the kind that makes your blood sing with a simple grin, the kind who always seem so sure and knowing, the kind whose terms of endearments almost never include actual names.

I really try not to be so easily enchanted. I understand this pattern has to end, but sometimes I think my heart and body conspire against me. My mind says no, but when he stretches out his hand, I take it.

I follow him into the fields, into the mists where all color is muted, where the scents are wild and earthy. As I lie with him, I imagine his wings, the downy kiss of soft feathers folding gently around me. For a handful of blissful moments, I feel like I am loved. “Oh babe,” he sighs.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face. Soon he’ll wake, pick up his bow, continue his pranks. He’ll find others who will worship him or curse him, but now I am the one with wings. I fly further than his trickster arrows can follow, beyond words, beyond sound, far away from the laughing eyes of cupid’s poppet.