Blisters, sparks

1.
Blisters on your feet,
they dance all night
running out of fire long
before your bodies meet.

Tequila, vodka shots,
drive-thru Big Macs, nuggets;
thirst, hunger.

In this waltz you have one job:
hold the tension, don’t let it drop;
reel him in with hesitation,
keep at bay your reservations.

2.
Sand between your toes,
they dance all night;
shoes off, cool your heels,
the bitumen’s now cold.

Rum and Coke, too much Extra Dry,
24-hour cheeseburgers, fries;
thirst, hunger.

In this waltz you have one job:
hold the tension, don’t let it drop;
reel him in with hesitation,
keep at bay your reservations.

3.
You know that Casanova was ever
the kitten, trying to be a tiger.
Your heart detects his truest shape,
it’s see-through, clear, his masquerade,
but you’ll insist on fooling your eyes,
searching for the Adonis inside.

In this waltz you have one job:
hold the tension, don’t let it drop;
reel him in with hesitation,
keep at bay your reservations.

4.
For the sparks that keep you warm tonight
are mere dust and ashes by the morning
when the child emerges into light
and you, miss, wake to sobriety dawning.

Cannot stand the sight of him,
cannot rationalise your whim;
cannot endure now his absence,
cannot justify your lack of sense.

5.
Hobble home, little girl,
ballerina dreams depart.

Hobble home, little girl,
chafed and blistered heart –

too close to the fire, after all.

Cat sniffs red heels
photo credit: Kuseart-Photography CATS via photopin (license)

Unexpected sentimentality

This week I ache
over a chunk of wood and
half a dozen strings;
twelve years of love, neglect,
a thousand secrets for to sing,
salvage beauty, reflect.

A simple switch
lights up your eyes; you let me in.
I speak with your spirit, stroll beside your heart,
roaming aisles, writing roles,
these words weave us into intimacy.
Bickering like strangers never could, we’re
companions, completely
at ease.

A drink or two
blurs our dreams; you let me in.
Suddenly the joke gets serious
because I get you and you get me
and the only thing that makes no sense
is your Plan B.
Irreverent, aren’t we, still
we reach for the divine, sometimes
I wonder how heaven would ever have us
the way we go on, wasting all
God’s time.

handwritten-poetry-drafts

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