In an estaminet I approach a whore who is lovely,

swelling, smells of lavender sleeping,

I say, can I touch you? And she says, but please..

As the suit of her skin beads then rolls,

I tickle her pilchard toes, I say, should we? she says, of course.

I see her stockings but not her skin,

and I want to live in one of the runs,

to spend my days climbing her handsome things.

Her name is Eliza and she has azure eyes,

fleshy pert lips above slender arms I want to chew.

I tickle her rear and she laughs and she coughs,

How I like her red I thought,

Though she informs me its not, still I thought, but a shade of red…

And I turn to a man to say, kind sir, but what of the night?

Yet again I thought of her and I merely cannot.

As I watch the crease atop her thigh grin atop a set of stairs,

She says, well? And I say how much?

The sun drips from her hips,

freckled fingertips.

Legs the shape of days,

wince beneath the weight of curled toes,

unburdened of a cold hardwood floor,

warmed as the sun seeps through the pores

of the window pane.

To pour upon the sheets,

to give to that which gives life.

Atop the bed begins the home,

when it is most memorable,

undone by what hands are capable of

as we lay in awe of September.

We are capable not as humans but lovers;

without words we are better.

To the house which stirs,

your sighs are pensive, not for the day,

but for the lascivious creatures we are.

The grey violet shines at night within,

bursts into a cloud which the skyline breaks;

its gentle bouncing breath, falls, falling-

The moments I have imagined but have not yet lived

-she tosses, turns, my lioness and her heavy dreams.

I kiss her and she rolls like a snug note folded over

in the corner of my shoulder.

I unfurl the night of her passing thoughts,

nestled in the brazen way she arrives at my neck.

The glass bowl of our dreams, bedside and resting;

a bursting valley of cosmic stardust,

across the impossible ocean,

and we begin again beginning to begin… 

I imagine our lives and a story unfolds- it is my imagination which is writing. Time brushes you and I watch as you gracefully age. The constellation of freckles; the cosmic kisses still cluttered upon your elbow- we have not yet had our great war. We arise as one in the morning; twin clouds softly broken by the approaching light of day but it is you who gathers herself first, who rises wrapped within a sheet- have I not always been the slumbering echo of the night? Or was it you who was lazy in the morning? But as you slowly walk away, I brush away the twilight to gaze upon you slender thighs. The water is drawn and the waterfall begins. I rise and approach the kitchen. The sound of the water as it runs its transparent hands through your hair I imagine to be my hands as I sit, sipping coffee. The door opens, breaks the air, water drops atop the floor as you pass. I inhale and my neck falls in your direction. Lavender kisses my senses and for a moment I close my eyes, I open, I follow you as you tip-toe into the bedroom, bemused as you stand in the light of a drawn curtain by the way your figure falls in the shape of a vase upon the floor.

I love when the oysters sing holiday, when her benevolent smile beckons me from the showering twilight like a raven falling, changing into a star. And let us say what the whales will never, let me speak in the dialect of the deceased, let me see what heaven looks like upon her knees and let me dream…

My soul is nothing more then the accumulation of what I cannot remember- let me remember something:

Moment number sixty-six.

You had cut your hair, your rich dark waterfall hair, and thus, upon parting with such beautiful strands- filaments of a cosmic heaven- you had tied a lock in a ribbon and handed it to me, your little old man.

Moment number twenty-four.

It was the first time I saw you fully undressed; my eyes, like magnificent stars, composed, not falling, of the reflection of the curves, the symmetry, the love which the heavens had created you with.

Moment number eighty-nine.

I am but a slight bit taller then you, and as such, on those days, those wonderful days when you stood, tip-toe, your arms snug around me, gazing up upon my eyes as the deep dark brown of your irises opened and we met in a moment of absolute harmony.

Moment number thirteen.

When I had dumped ale upon your head and said, ‘My, I love you.’

Moment number eight.

When I fell in love with you for the second time.

Moment number eight continued.

Coffee and cold weather and I remember exactly what you were wearing, what I was wearing. I was nervous, I am nervous, for in this moment I relive another, the one I write of. I crossed my legs, I talked, you listened, you talked- your hair, I am bemused by your never-ending hair- and it gets colder so we walk, we leave…