I've been acquainted with the lady in the blue dress.
More than once.
She's the tall, little blonde girl with the dark hair.
Standing by the bar you frequent when you have nowhere else to go.
She's pretty. Sometimes.
(Though it really need not matter)
You buy her a drink, hoping she'll exchange it for temporary lust.
A supplement for what you've lost.
I've been acquainted with the lady in the blue dress.

Give an infant a blank canvas and paints and watch him instantaneously dress the white square with sloppy lines of reds, blues and yellows.
Crossing each other in no logical sequence.
Mixing into awful shades of greens and browns.
But observe his face as he does so.
And you will see his face flushed with joy,
With every rush of the brush.
With no designated design in mind.
He loves to paint.

Give an adult a blank canvas and paints.
And the first thing he'll ask you is;
"What do you want me to paint?"

She never liked the way she looked in photographs.
But today even she felt as beautiful as she truly was.
Her new red laced dress looked as though it was only ever intended for her body.

Across the room through my vignetted gaze, our eyes met.
She offered a bashful smile through her lipstick and retreated her soft brown eyes to the floor.

In a fantasy I had hoped she would be charming and witty.
That we could relate in humour and music.

I'd never have the nerve to find out.

Staring blankly at the pavement.
No longer caring to dodge the puddles as he meandered along the uneven,cracked greyness of the town.
Half wishing he had brought a jacket.
The people walked around him namelessly.
The only face he had wanted to see had made him pray for blindness.
But infatuation had beat him to it.

Swimming along the bed of the night sky,
The Rat lurked to appear and disappear between the luminatons of bystanding street lights too ignorant to notice.
Stealing into your big city garden.
With mischief to make.
Hopefully not again.
This time.

Driving along the back-roads of Clare,
Sunny but coming to the end of the day.
Window half down,
Left hand on his knee,
The other holding the last few drags of a cigarette.
Using only the heel of his hand to guide the car along the scribble of road with minimal effort.

A song came waltzing through the lo-fidelity speakers of his blue Cortina.
A song he hadn't heard in years,
As he had avoided it where he could.
He thought about turning it off but retreated his hand back to his knee,
Tapping his faded work jeans to the rhythm.
Smoked the last of the cigarette
And ejected it before winding up the window to **** the rumble of the wind.
Turning up the radio he sang along to the duet,
As they had done before.
It had been seven years.
He still leaves the gaps for her to sing.
Never again to be filled.