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Feb 2021
I imagine . . .

a room draped
in muted lighting
the scene of a recent
gathering,      now departed,
nostalgia clings
to a hazy Chardonnay glass
stained by cinnamon-tinted
lips, one sip remains;
                              I indulge

across the room,
      conversation erupts
into liberated laughter,
echoing spirits    l o o s e n e d
in moonlit tongues
beneath a winding staircase;
my shadow caresses
the wooden banister,

by floor-length windows,
majestic fingers cloak
a bohemian blush
as ardent eyes lean in
without inhibition; my lips
burn from their amorous

then haunting notes
drift upon midnight air,
the room blurs,
disintegrating into
shimmering confetti,
      spilling down
              back steps
that sting an untamed night
with distant memories,
bewitched in peonies,
fragranced by a piano's
final resonant
South City Lady
Written by
South City Lady  F/Atlanta
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