the bed sheets,
expecting morrocco,
berlin or maybe
prague.
just my room,
just the guilt that wakes me,
just wanting to sleep another ten hours.
crumbling on my pillow, shaking away the slumber or the cobwebs that clutter my head. stretch away to the other end of the bed & i lie there.
i lie there thinking of you.
how many of my rules did i break
when i looked you in the eye?
you & your cold glance, blue skin & broken toes. the caustic touch of your voice. the absolute awkwardness of you. the significance, the irrelevance of you. the way you stand & falter, nod & shake your head so obligingly. the way night falls so gradually, as though we were falling too.
she opens up a green umbrella,
shelter from the ceiling & sky,
talks of superstition & chivalry.
& the irony isn't lost on me
...
tell me, was it lost on you?
my fingers barely graze
your photograph. a figment
of you leashes my fear.
my black skirt floats above the ground,
making me feel more foolish
than you could comprehend.
the insolent snatch of my fingers,
taking you by surprise. &
it doesn't really matter.
do you think i'm just like you now?
as desperate for a cheap affection?
naive enough to believe that
what i say out loud
has some truth?
i understand you too well,
because you are the
deception of honesty.