She waltzed in wearing lavender -
not the bruised blue hue of dried buds,
but the soft, delicate shade that makes you forget
poison can be pastel
and alive.
The cerulean seas of her eyes
surveyed me with a crocodilian smirk
an undertow ready to clench and drag
for its own amusement
She smiled like silk,
shiny, delicate, costly
as she handed me a cedar latched spice box.
Inside
red cords, scissors
pressed flowers so fragile they'd shatter
with a whisper
and a single letter sprinkled
with cayenne
sealed with red lipstick
too heavy to open.
"Time doesn't belong to you," She whispered
like it was a flirtation
like my hours were hers
to unwrap
to discard
She kissed my questioning forehead
soft, sealing, dismissive,
answered nothing
just reached for my hands
with perfectly manicured cold fingers
I gasped awake
my mouth full of cinnamon
dry and hot
a goodbye I didn't choose caught in my throat
that I prayed I'd never have to speak.
She's reappeared now and again
in the corners of mirrors,
fond of the elevator's reflective surround
and the hammered copper coffee jar
that stays open like a lifeline.
always twirling her ashen ringlets
waiting? warning?
When I glimpse her, I open the lace covered windows
and let the sun reclaim the shadows -
until even her perfume forgets my name.
