Monday, April 6, 2009

There you are

a wall of rain stained windows

inside or against the wall,

remote in a crowded room.

You’re so young, all that remains on your solid window pain skin 

are water marks.

She lives off her tennis shoes and

reorganized memories of age fourteen.

Her tongue hanging out, some throaty melody

coming up, attempting conversation.

Putting her hands to her cheeks, her lips, her hair, her waist,

they rapidly move and rest

as you sit with an easy posture.

You’re hair curls and twists quietly.

As she bends her fingers back

and cracks your silence.

She recalls fifteen, sixteen.

And spoons you silhouettes,

hopeful to intrigue you 

with whatever the last idea claimed to love.

She’s still choking on seventeen

as you try to have a conversation

with her feelings.

And you walk quickly,
legs like branches blowing forward.

She drags her fingertips across the wood

then turns to tip toe up the stairs.

1 comment:

  1. "your hair curls and twists quietly"
    "spoons you silhouettes"
    "as you try to have a conversation with her feelings"
    "legs like branches blowing forward"

    very cool