You speak to me
In a language incomprehensible,
Each word a quick-hushed silence,
Every syllable pause a breeze
That blows my eyes shut to voice and tears.
You explain the righteous woe
Of all your elaborate centerpieces and
The vacant echoes in the corners of each room
Where once someone found love.
Always with your shoulder against me,
That black curtain of lost inhibition
And the tweed of your jacket a maze
Of thrift left to catch everything my lyrics
Might have to say before they are fully said.
You sing in tongues behind my back
Of strange, exotic women
In their tanned thighs and tickling eyelashes,
Bewitchers of the Nile and tide,
How they can roll our future around in their fingers
Like something happenstance,
As if I were merely a mirage of make-believe.
You, in your black tie in corduroys,
Your leather-bound copies of Neruda and Hughes,
Were always hungry for an entrance
Half-draped in Shakespeare and make-believe,
One I could not make in my pale skin,
All meek and butterfly tender
Unequipped to bear witness to your
Fairytale finale, all theatrical
And watered down of depth.
And like something strange and feeble
Walking in a wind blowing backwards,
You always touched me
With one eye looking past me
And the other swimming toward the horizon.
**Written from a prompt at Magpie Tales.