She comes to me. The day is thick with a film of heat in the air. The people talk around the room. The smell of red wine stains their lips but on they gossip about dreams that may never be. It is dull. All of this. The way they all act. The forced charm in the undertone of their voices. The way they sway in their stances to seem more approachable. Their cheeks must be burning with the fire that is untruthfulness. So when she comes to me, when she walks into the room, with that beautiful way her hips gently sway back and forth as she walks, it is like seeing poetry in a room full of simple sentences.
She spends the evening with me. I look into her eyes, the color of a moon lit swamp, and I let it drown me. I notice the way her eyebrows raise when a rude comment is remarked. I notice her full lips, the color of the peony. I wonder what it would be like to rest upon them with mine? Her words are sharp and full of prose. She is quick, like a whip. She can destroy you with a flick of a tongue, split you into two without a second glance. She’s so extraordinary. Like looking at the stars, she’s implacable.
She must go. How does time move in this speed? How can her voice make an hour turn to mere seconds. She gets up and I grasp her fragile wrist. She looks at me with harsher eyes. I take my fingers away and try to use feeble words. Stay dear, stay here with me. But she shakes her head and strokes my arm. She must go. I plea harder but she is more certain then a preacher. I walk her to the door, I scan her elegance. I look at the curves of her because she is like a water painting. I look at the way her short curled hair brushes her neck. I must see you again. I whisper to her round ears. She touches my breast. Don’t worry boy, I’m sure you will. With that I watch her head off into darkness. I feel that she has a piece of me forever with her. I gave it to her without permission, but it is hers. I have never been so certain it will not be broken.
— C. L. Wing // Poem 3