Electric tension crackles across your lips,
tiny bolts from tiny hurricanes raging around the eyes of your pupils.
We sit where two halls meet,
parallel paths on perpendicular lines,
an x marking, a t crossed, the intersection with
our eyes playing a game of red light, green light.
A smile, possibly imposed,
a gold spot where my finger touched the blush
of rose begs rising on the hills of your cheeks,
your shyness fogging your glasses
and your passion hiding in deeper dimples.
A smile, possibly imposing,
building trenches in your face to match the
sharpness of your chin and contrasting the
charm leaking out of the corners of your mouth like faulty boxes,
packages, boxes and bags tied with ribbon in denial,
the fabric timeless tapestries torn and tied around the tree like tinsel.
You touched my hand,
drawing me back on the sketchbook tiles, shading me in
when my mind wandered off to wonder.
It sounded like the moments between the fingers of
impatience and angry clocks.
Tick tock transgressions make me a momentary monarch of mirth before I
falter and realize that you biting your levi lip
to hold the tide back
means that the hurricane is swelling.
You apologize because of secrets you hold in Roman ruins
and for sweetening the cyanide syllables.
You regret these moments, because unlike promises,
you can’t recant.
You stand and storms pass, stomachs settle and
the last jagged bolt streaks
into oblivion.