she spoke sanguine to me.
tripping on harp-hearted stilettos. mellow smoke rails
and a nicotine lip. for good measure

a pocket-book romance. that she keeps for the rainy days
when her eyes won't dry. and the stars fall like ashes onto the wet cement
clutching reality with her right hand. standing under a streetlamp
and they've always told her that
these were the best days of her life.

wind whispering sweet tones of anguished cries.
she'd lie to me- if it would make my world turn orange
because she never liked the taste of these sunken blues.
speaking in tongues marked by periods of silence.
puncutated to fit the needs of whoever kept her depth at bay.
and she'd always tell me I was never meant to weather this storm.

and her voice rang when she sang Janis to the treetops
telling her baby to cry. and saying how one fist in the air is meaningless
when the crowd remains seated.
and she'd sit on the curb. these were the best days of her life

when she spoke stucco heartbreaks. lacing each thread with innocence
she'd tell me to dance to her pulse- but my feet kept slipping
cutting her blood-flow. as she spoke to me in vibrant reds.

these humid nights take my breath away

If you [Log In] as a member you can discuss this work with others