Precision lived in the way she spoke
Cadence like a poem
She could have wrote.

She wore heels in my kitchen
as she danced around the sink.
She had been soaking in music all day,
she needed the noise to think.

I could feel her desire and approval
of all my corners and sharp edges
and all my performances, she applauded
never seeking my reform
She just wanted to slip out of the face and clothes she had worn
All day.

But those heels stayed on
tapping the hardwood floor
I could hear her in my kitchen
smothered by the bright red walls.

But those heels stayed on
so she could make the music,
as she danced around like
there was a light flowing in.
I could feel aggression in the acoustics
that somewhere beneath all that soft skin
something learned to be muted
a streak of darkness,
that small spot she wouldn't let me in
She held it so dear and so tight
I couldn't get near

When we fell to ashes dreaming of ways to connect
I could feel the abstract effect
of her fingertips at the base of my neck
on the side of my cheek
in the curls of my hair
tangled and tugging
Little tears she left
on my back and arms colored in white
because I wanted to harness her light

I should have known she'd be gone before she left
so when I saw her there
a luminous, nonchalant stare
I knew she was simply unaware
of how my kitchen is still swollen with the music
of her clicking red heels
of how my floors have deep wounds that are beginning to peel

So, I burned through August like a pack of cigarettes
With a distaste for oval-faced, brunettes,
And I'm trapped inside the mind of a theorist
pretending your vacant pity
will make my sight clearest

Red morning commutes
awoke in September, with optimism to settle disputes,
Riding in the soft rain of yellow leaves,
but I'm not the only one who grieves
over dancing, straight-haired women
in red high heels

So when she appeared in my atmosphere
somewhere  behind dark curls, I began to feel
How afraid I was to draw you near

Her mistrust of my performances
and sharp edges
she soaked in the soft piano that drummed from the fireplace
and spilled in through the skylights in my room.
We laid in bed through Sunday's noon.
Silent kisses became the only music that played -
the rustle of sheets, quiet moans
the subtle changes in tone
in and out, constant static.
You didn't feel the need to fill the silence.
So I let the silence in.
We used to be such experts on reliance
Now we were never under each other's skin
This was not a game, either of us was going to win

I heard you come through my front door
you were all smiles in a small black dress
The lack of guilt behind,
the desire to watch your undress
was an innocent crime, but I couldn't confess.

When you wrapped your arms around me
I heard your shoes against the floor
then running down the carpets
as we drifted past my bedroom door

I never confessed
How loving you was driving towards an eastward storm
away from the blue skies growing behind me in the west.
How I tried to describe you as an art form
the kind that flows into me
but I'm an aseptic scholar
To have thought of you like poetry,
when you were a watercolor
painted in sparrow black.
How I loved you like an echo,
but you were a small whisper
that never came back.

The soft trickle of rain leaves
the little cough, as your hand weaves
Her head buried in my sheets
damaged by each day in the week
We laid in bed, wondering what wouldn't last
and waited for October to pass