The way her off-white dress bottom dances
in a windstorm freezes my pass-by.
Both wind and her dress agree to hold hands.
They intertwine at different speeds,
exchange dips on the dance floor,
toss, turn, swirl around to the rhythm,
up until the wind passes on through;
the storm passes, sun peeks out, the next song resumes
her dress dances no more. My day goes back to ordinary.
in her aged skin,
midst her lips,
branched around her eyes.
Her body an hourglass of beach-like sand
washed along ocean end;
smoothed to the surface by a midnight high tide;
reflected waters’ perfection
in morning sunrise.
Worn on sleeves,
exposed to hurt,
told to never give away.
It never misses rhythm,
sheds a tear,
or finds a reason
to beat no more
She dresses in see-through.
She’s opaque and clarity, fiction and reality;
She would never look my way.
She knows my flaws; I know she knows.
I can’t compliment her the way she deserves it.
I best express my spoken words
in creative, nonsensical poetry.
Before she walks away,
maybe I’ll keep my
ten seconds of doubt
I’ll approach her,
tell her she’s beautiful,
grab her by the hand,
put my finger on her lips
before she can respond.
All before she goes,
I go, and my illusory mind
wanders off, again.
Draped in white lace, she sits
encircled in smoke. Ash put beside
her, burn marks on her shoulder; she
enjoys the pain, buzz.
Her dress lays lightly over her shoulder
shielding, exposing her. Surrounded
by grey-black smoke, wrist on her knee,
a dangling hand; her mind drifts away
the world encircled around her
scattered on the table,
like a puzzle,
broken in hundreds;
spilt across the floor
forgotten and lost
broken in pieces
of fragmented thought
A breath of warm air,
creates a canvas of condensation.
A finger, her brush, draws blindly.
Her kryptonite is the sun
to rise and evaporate her
She will stay drawing,
beyond the morning dew,
creating temporary fantasies
on a canvas of condensation