cherried

Note: I wrote this years ago…I want to change it, but I don’t know what exactly I want to change, so I have left it as it is, and perhaps my muse will relent…

 

she sat clumsily against the grimy brick wall
staring straight ahead to avoid my sharp glance
her hair lay greasy and plastered to her face
dark and congealed like tarrish glue
lazily her hand lay open to catch the piercing needles from above
sighing i sat aside her
defiant to remain as wordless as she
to stay still as icyness wetted my clothes
even as the torrent of freezy drops
snaked down my goose-pimpled neck
she lay her head calmly upon numb shoulder
and slid heavily into sitter’s lap
upon her flustered face
stared two crimson-stained eyes
cheeks a blush
lips parted in scarlet
hued tears had lay upon eyelashes
and run rivulets upon her rosy-pale face
cherried were her hands
all sticky with sweet iron scent
she lay there refusing to utter a word more
almost but never….no never her…almost less a little of life
she lay in my drizzle laden arms
drenched in rain and red…

Fleeting Flirtation

 There is an art:

which each of us create

anew with each encounter,

whatever day.

 

…safely exhilarating…

…securely coy…

…furtive, fleeting, taboo…

though willingly innate.

 

silent observers swear by it:

the glance, the presence, the immense haughtiness.

innocent…yet charged with minute passion.

 

a glance met…

as a mask slides upon each player’s face:

a mute drama begins.

 

around each involvee a force field emerges:

actions of the other magnified,

leaving all else oblivious.

 

engaged in this duel of strangers two,

interest is feigned upon all else but the other,

so daringly they counter each other’s broach of space.

 

The untouched brush:

 

so close, so close…

to reach out and trace a finger upon….

 

yet moment by moment intimacy,

cannot purely connect them.

 

so there one and one,

stay each unknown:

 

to continue their glance

to continue their silent dance…

the lady doth protest unheard

even as you speak the truth
each word gentled,
so as not to hurt what already is tender…
each statement wreathed with “That’s the way it is”
each phrase piqued in soft question
“Of do you understand? This is how it must be…”
each emotion huskily swallowed
and gently urging assent…

i let Silence do my talking.