Fixed, like a photograph; in the one I kept of you, you are hiding your face and that’s good because somewhere you are moving, your lips get themselves round words, ordering latte or a cocktail, kissing. Everything we’ve done, you are repeating somewhere. You are the Orinoco flowing between two points, the points are nowhere near me. You’re moving on, you are moving and there is sense of direction in each day for you.
I’ve nothing. I have nothing because the things I have are straight and square, and your life curves, it streams, it curls like smoke, it swirls like cream in coffee. Sometimes I pretend that I stand my lips between you and your words, between the sips of your drink, between your sighs, and I catch yours with a kiss, and my lips buzz with you; but then the doorbell rings, or a breeze blows and cools my hot mouth, it dries the dampness on my lips. Memory is not kind, there is too much supposition filling the cracks to make you smooth.
No comments:
Post a Comment