While his hands discovered the matter
of my hair, tangles between,
He closed his eyes and I could see
the focus in his lips, the soft curl,
The cold concentrated precision-
Like sucking on an orange piece.
The sky was peach, the beach bare,
Vibrant horizons each corner that
closed us in and
the dusk hung in time holding it all,
Like my head was held in his hands.
And though the sky was peach, and
He whispered that I was wonderful,
Which I believed, and
We slid through hours like kaleidoscopic
portals in those sic fi movies,
He parted the juicy segments of my lips
With his mouth much too cold, his hands
Clutching with stunted passion my
straggly ginger hair, a dull moment really and
I folded, flat as the ground beneath, horizons
before and thought of England.
How the sky would be black along with spirit
right about now, how it must look falling
over London with delicious icy terror and
of course; you.
How your warm lips are smaller and fit,
How you know I hate having my hair
How we sunk into those cold evenings,
Like whole bodies on feather white pillows.