Thursday, April 8, 2010

The One

One morning

You will be the reason he slides out of bed

Shuddering at the hope of perhaps slipping past

Only a slash of your shoulder

In a too tight hallway

The gravity of your small body

Smoldering between his love and the linoleum wall

A whispered payer, rehearsed confessions

Aroused once more

By simply the scent of your strange hair

That reminds him hopelessly of sea foam and silk kimonos

A sigh wrestles silently in his stomach

Which seems to have soared

A substantial space higher than he usually remembers

A thousand butterflies

The color of your eyes

(like milk or mystery novels or magic tricks)

Rousing themselves from delicate dreams

To drum the thin air

With crepe paper wings

Making music like the sound

Of you laughing or weeping out loud

And waltzing suggestively

Sexy and slow, antenna to antenna

Hot sorrow streams down upon him

As the small of your back

Swings past the eggshells of his heart

In perfect cadence with your thrilling step

He sees you ambling down the hallway

Not as a woman

But as the woman

A swan neck in moonlight

Shedding feathers and tears and pearls

With the fingertips motionless in his pocket

He strums your infinite grief and beauty

Loving you in the way one loves oxygen or salt water:


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