she overlooks me,
her hand like a pale sailor's greeting
shadows her eyes as
dappled light flutters along the rooftop spire above her head -
her forefinger curves to her browbone,
a buffer for the kind of morning
that greets those from high rise
windows
in places like this
for faces like hers
to stay just a little while
and leave smiling over one shoulder
in a stolen shot of a car window;
secrets swallowed and adventures washed down with beaujolais in the backs of black coupés
whisky, cherries and dual carriageways
thick cigars, rubber on tar
all the way to those dark places and bars
that leave most half-hearted,
but she is more sparkling and effervescent than champagne stars,
and more well received than a cacophany of applause.
she overlooks me,
craning up from under the morning mist
leans, eyes closed, on the iron railing and breathes
a familiar rise and fall
expanding of lungs that she and i share, but different air
mine fit to burst with coffee and car exhaust
hers with that crisp stratosphere coolness:
the penthouse breeze.
her arm like a swan's neck curls from elbow to chin,
shadowed straps and sunbeams
take turns dancing on her skin
as though they could flirt forever.
and she overlooks me:
a face in the crowd
searching hard for access
moving through a chaos of flickering flashes,
just a droplet of light in the bright white clouds
of camera strobes
and crushing against body after body
my crumpled black t-shirt dreams of her atmosphere
it is no fault of hers though
she remains as generous as she is radiant,
waving and beaming over the awning
so that others may enjoy a little warmth this morning.
still,
she overlooks me,
my eyes still set on the perfect curl of her hazel hair
as it drops and slips over her bare shoulder
and her forefinger
as it rests in the space between jaw and cherry painted lips
parted in laughter
where sit teeth like the first row of an audience enraptured.
finally, as the performance ends
and the sounds around me swell
with mona lisa eyes
she throws me her last, lasting look
before turning and disappearing beyond invisible thresholds
and the mass held spellbound
recedes and melts
but in that moment,
i feel seen like everybody else.
under blankets of shooting stars,
red velvet and chandeliers
she moves ceaselessly
through hazes of gaultier and hallways
humming nightingale songs at midnight
and falling back into bed linen
sore feet and tipsy eyes
fingers still dancing across pillows
mind still racing
chest still whirling,
but making a home here
for now.
and only then
does she roll to the side
and rummage to the back of her bags
past silk and sapphire
past black tie attire
sleeping, that night,
with its familiar longing
in her old black t-shirt
because nothing fits so well.
except in moments, she will always overlook me
and although i'll never meet her
she will set me free,
and in this one moment, true as salt in the sea
i know one day i will know her
and she'll remember me.
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 4:32 PM UTC
she overlooks me,
her hand like a pale sailor's greeting
shadows her eyes as
dappled light flutters along the rooftop spire above her head -
her forefinger curves to her browbone,
a buffer for the kind of morning
that greets those from high rise
windows
in places like this
for faces like hers
to stay just a little while
and leave smiling over one shoulder
in a stolen shot of a car window;
secrets swallowed and adventures washed down with beaujolais in the backs of black coupés
whisky, cherries and dual carriageways
thick cigars, rubber on tar
all the way to those dark places and bars
that leave most half-hearted,
but she is more sparkling and effervescent than champagne stars,
and more well received than a cacophany of applause.
she overlooks me,
craning up from under the morning mist
leans, eyes closed, on the iron railing and breathes
a familiar rise and fall
expanding of lungs that she and i share, but different air
mine fit to burst with coffee and car exhaust
hers with that crisp stratosphere coolness:
the penthouse breeze.
her arm like a swan's neck curls from elbow to chin,
shadowed straps and sunbeams
take turns dancing on her skin
as though they could flirt forever.
and she overlooks me:
a face in the crowd
searching hard for access
moving through a chaos of flickering flashes,
just a droplet of light in the bright white clouds
of camera strobes
and crushing against body after body
my crumpled black t-shirt dreams of her atmosphere
it is no fault of hers though
she remains as generous as she is radiant,
waving and beaming over the awning
so that others may enjoy a little warmth this morning.
still,
she overlooks me,
my eyes still set on the perfect curl of her hazel hair
as it drops and slips over her bare shoulder
and her forefinger
as it rests in the space between jaw and cherry painted lips
parted in laughter
where sit teeth like the first row of an audience enraptured.
finally, as the performance ends
and the sounds around me swell
with mona lisa eyes
she throws me her last, lasting look
before turning and disappearing beyond invisible thresholds
and the mass held spellbound
recedes and melts
but in that moment,
i feel seen like everybody else.
under blankets of shooting stars,
red velvet and chandeliers
she moves ceaselessly
through hazes of gaultier and hallways
humming nightingale songs at midnight
and falling back into bed linen
sore feet and tipsy eyes
fingers still dancing across pillows
mind still racing
chest still whirling,
but making a home here
for now.
and only then
does she roll to the side
and rummage to the back of her bags
past silk and sapphire
past black tie attire
sleeping, that night,
with its familiar longing
in her old black t-shirt
because nothing fits so well.
except in moments, she will always overlook me
and although i'll never meet her
she will set me free,
and in this one moment, true as salt in the sea
i know one day i will know her
and she'll remember me.
Request permission to use this poem