She reads Agatha Christie
Taking breaks
To imagine what the weather is like in France

She opens the window to feel the storm
I imagine her glasses fog up
And when she blinks
Her lashes clean them like windshield wipers

She’s cynical about love
And foreign to the touch
She shuts out all the lust
That's range. Porcelain to dust

When she is overcome
It’s with a demon
From a console
Raging to life like a tantrum

If I could have her any way
I’d take her covered in fake blood
In the foyer of a haunted house
Mounted in a ripped up blouse
Her lips matching the color
Of the dye in her hair
Dip my romantic in her cynicism
Keep the window open to let the city listen.