I don't see her often, a whiff of shadow
in mirrored wall or pale afternoon sun
But come night, she's a secret to be unfolded-
Something parched, something incomplete
Oozes out, become threads & ink
Her fingers lift to charcoal the empty page
Blurred by moonlight, she fetches a storm
underneath the quiet sky & labels it- Rapture -
The red moon is all hers,
There's electricity in her lush ebony hair.
Where the path breaks into different crossing
There she runs to see what's coming next, next-
Come morning, there is body she inhabits.
Numbers. Efficiency. A box within a room.
That is what the world wants to see. She complies
by dropping a token in the metal box . Only her belly
grumbles from this subway train chase
with its door chimes forever opening & closing -
Seeds. How she loves beginnings. Every first
stolen kiss, a stab of memory lingers like dewdrops.
Desire. The quick inhalation of passion.
Warm wine. The bleeding of hours, sweet as tangerines.
I sometimes forget how she writes,
what she dreams of, but she lingers faint as I'm right here
By candlelight, she creaks to life,
awash with wild asterisks & stars I couldn't number -
Her pulse grows stronger, every season is an awakening
We disappear across the page, a duet of shade & light -
Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Self-portrait by Brian Miller ~ Thanks for the visit ~