Warm knees brushing together
     under restaurant tables.
Candlelight, lemon tea,
     broken laughter, faking a blush.

Chain smoking;
     three in the morning. Then four. Then two.
Red wine haze;
     street lights echoing in the stars.
Cold cheeks;
     cold toes, warm lonely champagne.
Missing notches in your spine that isn't there,
     too scared to go back to bed.

Low lights.
Low hum, clinking of cups, blurred coffee stains on a napkin.
Soft touch.
Soft laughter, squeaking of torn up leather seats,
     fogged up windows and bicycle bells.
Fault lines on the top of a crème brûlée
     and on the backs of your hands.

Cold, wet footprints of drowned ghosts
     leading you towards nowhere, a heat-blurred unreachable zenith.
Unlit candles, china white on a china plate,
     shots of *****, shots of bleach.
Ambling along dusty corridors,
     hallways with loose floorboards and memories you're not sure you ever had.
Desert haze, his brooding gaze,
     conversational Russian 101 and irretrievable moments
alone in bed together while Sean Connery distracts you from the press of his fingers.

Crushing, isn't it;
     the absent brush of skin-on-skin.
Cold toes under warm sheets,
     the bed is empty all the same.
Ghosts of lovers past,
     numb tongues, carpet burn on your knees.
Soft murmurs, be quiet, I know, I know, shh,
     bruises on your knuckles from being held so tight.
Crushing, isn't it;
     the missing weight of bodies on top of yours.
Lukewarm kisses on yielding skin,
     he is gone all the same.
You promised your heart wouldn't burst as he himself did,
     and he is gone all the same.

Bare feet torn on muddy grass.
Blink slowly,
     feel the wind between your fingers.
Tilt your head,
     offer your throat to the sun.
Laugh,
     make music with the birds.
Run as fast as you can,
     stop to sing with the crickets.
Wander slowly, close your eyes,
     feel the sun play symphonies on your arms,
skin speckled with the light of every star.

Tepid summer nights and
     holes in the soles of your feet.
Holes in your wrists, no?
Soft fluttering of dusted eyelashes and
     the pale pink of morning sun as you turn your cheek.
Blushing like a schoolgirl, no?
***** fingertips on dirtied skin and
     toothy smiles, moth-eaten pillowcases, stale whispers.
*'Pour susurrer des mots doux', non?