I love,
like a heavy sun-rain,
a woman with scars
like light through
my blinds in the morning
falling across
the stillness of her
naked legs,
casting shadows
that make me hungry
and
ache to love her
in a field absent of anything
but us and moon or
sun
or fire.
Her eyes float like stars stolen
from Van Gogh and
her hands have scars
like his nights,
which I still kiss
when I can.
She has a secret scar,
too,
that I used to kiss.
I would brush my lips against
it,
then press a promise in,
a different one every time,
but it seems I've broken
most.
Once promised to swear
by the taste of it,
thin and white,
every day,
now I grind sand
between my teeth by
the long days
that are not that first, fleeting
hour of light
when the morning creeps in
and lies next to me,
warming the pillow
I leave standing
in remembrance
of scars and shadows
I forgot to kiss
goodbye,
goodnight.
No comments:
Post a Comment