Mist whispered across her back
circling shoulders and into her arms
The scent of lavender beat her tongue
feather-puncture approaching love's nerves
He left her at the port parking lot
motor still running
kissed the breeze with gaze distracted
signaling
We'll be in touch soon.
She guessed this meant nothing
to do with touch.
Refusing to watch as he walked away,
she turned to the gulls positioned on stanchons
flipping him the bird
cawing after him in sarcastic shrieks
leave you bastard leave me
Only the scent of sails.
But Dunkin still on the corner,
kids with clipboards turning phrases for donations
Everything intact, minding it's place.
A plastic bag caught wind, gusting toward the ocean
with tight voiceless blows
Yup I'm fine. Fine. Yup I'm fine.
Alone on the clean cotton sheet
Touching her own shoulder lightly
She mimics his sanctity, mourns his mist
Weaves another memory to anchor.
So the storm grows face-first
still air sardonic on naked back.
Old, dank, her sailor's ocean shroud drapes her
And tonight, again, she drowns in his death.
No comments:
Post a Comment