Sunday, April 4, 2010

comes tumbling down.

she tastes like red wine.

there's an open flame in her mouth
and she plays you like a Spanish guitar

your fingers are flying up and down her neck
and your feet dance to her rhythm
while they try and find their place
on the brown tile dancefloor

she moves with an accent
rolling her r's and softening vowels
she draws out her o's like they were
on a sketchpad

her hair's in your mouth and you can't breathe
you draw in air and exhale resentment for whatever god created time
because this moment will end.

do not mistake yourself:

this is not some misguided melancholy
it is not a minute in which to place arbitrary regret
because ending this moment is looking into an empty bottle
or waking at the bottom of a well
and seeing the sun peek through glass and down stone walls

any romance to be found in this
is between your hands and against your chest
the way she breathes, she loves,
insists
that there's no time for a man possessed.

you take the battery from the clock
now, your hands are the only ones moving
(tick tock tick tock)

and you may be a pendulum
but you could set your watch to her

4 comments:

britt said...

this is beautiful... I love her.

Andy said...

Thank you.

So do I.

Waif13 said...

I love how you write women.
Especially this one.
She's bewitching and enchanting
and I want to know her. And take notes.

Claire Valene Bagley said...

I could kiss you for this. I loved it.