She would take it down
on old crumpled receipts—
imprisoned at the bottom of
her bag.
Each laid to crooked rest next to
questionable crumbs of mystery
and a pen that leaked its
remaining potential
into scattered
Morse code all over
cheaply sewn lining.
The saving grace
of these little ragtag proofs
allowed her to
relive the moment
when his singing voice
brought all of her
dizzy moth thoughts
to a stand still.
With each coo, he
pulled on all of the right strings,
and all of the right curves
on her body turned up
in all of the right places.
Once again she
danced a smile with her eyes
and rolled her hips with her tongue
like she never
forgot how.
© Bitsy Sanders, March 2016