Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Time Out

She drifts across the sand like a lost note
From Paul Desmond’s sax
Her hips swinging to the swish of the waves

I start to fall in love with the cool apathy in her moves
She climbs the rocks near the shore, unafraid of slipping through the cracks
Bare feet scrape against the limestone
I stand at the base of the cliff, looking up, lost in her thighs
Which look like twin moons sprinkling light across the beach

She’s talking about Russian literature
And the way the light from the city glints off the white caps
Almost inviting you to jump into the twisting water
Her eyes fill up with wonder
Crouching down as if seriously studying the distance
From the edge of the rocks to the water’s surface

Her cheek is inches away from my lips
Smells like lake-weed and sour apples
My mouth waters at the thought of biting into delicate green skin
A crisp snap and the sudden release of juices

She clumsily hops down from the rocks and
Bumps into me on her way back to the sand I notice the heel of her foot bleeding a little
But she doesn’t
She talks about having trouble sleeping and
Never feeling like she has a home
Imagines out loud all the exotic places she’d like to visit

I pull on a cigarette to recalibrate myself
This always happens with her
One night filled with moments that to me defy
The ticking of a clock
Moments she treats like blood left on the rocks

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