She tucks her hair behind her ears,
and a ten-year body of softness
pulls at my every memory and muscle. Let this go.
She is timeless as the
line of buildings, as the lake
pounding rocks into pebbles,
a handful of sand thru my fingers,
the lingering sense of sangria
and cigarettes from long ago.
The sun pounds concrete & glass &
the people I pass on the street
seem black n' white, or maybe
I stopped being sensitive to
hues of mood, substituting
reaction for compassion. Trying to
save it all up for her.
Everywhere I see women,
but none that I would treat better,
for a while, at least.
For the streets change fast like
like weather or not you're
the air shifts and is gone.
Long, shadowed halls of the
intangible enveloping waves of steam of days
& the way I wanted things to be.
Traces of transcended flaws
of personality and her afterimage
outlined on the lids of my eyes.
I think about sleep,
and decide to write.