hearts,
shaped awkward
and angled into points,
drop like hair falling on a gown
graceless as feathers in rain
molted from birds leaving home
one season too early
and one morning too late for the worm…
black bend shadow in a corner facing left,
when she peeks,
her face
like her handwriting
curves
and her contour becomes his detour...
when he speaks,
his lips move like typewriters.
the smacking,
like fingers on rusting, archaic keys,
turns her mood
‘67 radio dial style:
up
L O U D E R...
but she is slow motion,
soft, surreal and in fear of circumspection
and he is a reel,
black and white and in need of projection…