In a ballroom, in a hall, red lips, rose red crimson, her blush sits atop her cheek, her eyes quite forgotten…

Lifts her chin from time to time, to a smile, to a word, to a curve as it drowns into her thighs, her calves the shape of rain drops fall unto the petal.

It is March, sweating, a wet midnight balm, dear brother how charming- her form lingers, her toes barefoot balk atop the floor.

In a ballroom, in a hall, lips blue, twilight blue lips, her hair belongs to the sky, a February stroll steps into the water.

It is March which tends to a yawn, beneath, within the way she disappears, ‘China,’ I say, ‘No they are Chinese,’ a French lullaby, cigarettes and lighters, I look, take a look from above her wishing to waterfall, to crawl into her home, of iridescent petals peeled impatiently before to bloom.

In a bedroom, in a hall, her listless voice drifting, dear goddess the wallpaper pales in insignificance, a pattern stripped from her armoire.