Saga of a Stiletto

As I lie inside this damp dark closet among other assorted companions, beclouded and dominated, familiar of the fact that she would only dwell upon me for one night and leave me abandoned for another year, I admire. I wonder if I’d ever be fortunate enough to suit her every single day. A click of keys, and she slides the door partition draped in red, the sheer fabric resting with subtlety on her gleaming skin and the silver earring tinkling on her shoulder. A glance as comforting as the first when she received me as a present a year back on the same eve. She takes me out, caresses me reviving the memories which echoed of his confession. This day, she stood with poise as she no longer required to raise her heels to be at par. Slipping her delicate feet onto me induced a palpable flair within her. Walking swiftly through the corridor, she leaps spotting him across the stretch of curtains. Her palm clasps onto his, fingers intertwine, she tripped and a crack penetrated me. He sure caught hold of her, but fell himself, again. I broke, my spirit shattered given I couldn’t uphold my admiration’s charisma. The realisation of not being worthy enough to be a part of her persona hit me. I had a short span of life wholly dedicated to my mistress, and as I bid goodbye, I only wish the others lying inside that damp dark closet to embrace and shower her with every compliment I could never afford.