Wring me out like you did your finest silk shirt that you stained with wine over last night’s dinner.
You know it’s dry clean only!
If you hadn’t wanted more of its oaky aftertaste. If you hadn’t been watching me out of the corner of your eye. If you hadn’t leaned forward to touch my hand. if only you had heard me the first time. if only I hadn’t worn your favorite perfume.
You can’t blame me for this, It wasn’t me that said you taste like a month of Saturdays.
Don’t put on Otis Redding and expect me not to dream of that night we danced in the sand on Presque isle
It’s probably not even real silk, not spun from real worms, but those synthetic ones kept in a plastic jar.
What’s any of it matter, eventually rocks become sand and we will all be fossils.
Anyhow, you’re still all that and a bag of chips.
I eat the whole bag and want more.
It’s been at least a coon’s age since I’ve felt so reckless
The diaphanous blue of your eyes is like courage making me want to tell you everything
Even still, the coolness of your touch heated everything within me
I grab hold of your face and kiss your lips with the fervor I have been saving for months
Miss Thang is finally living up to her name.
You surrender to your feelings and let me taste the salt on your lips
Your tears dry my eyes
As the moon rises from my heart
“C’est la vie
The tea kettle cries
So I must leave you to wallow in your own sorrows as I tend to mine.
I love this one for reasons I can’t quite describe. The imagery and your use of language are both beautiful. It was a pleasure to read this one.