It cups my chin, and if it could give,

it gives -

a white smoothing porcelain, to tether, bitter on my lips,

fast into the air, pulling on my coat;

a dance, a positioning of feet,

and an embrace that, true to form,

evaporates,

and leaves me so unsure.

 

Hurried, the part of the lake

that I am, is held back, and yet cautious,

and lonely still, it attracts;

those rippling weddings,

silver kissed, and arching necks entwined,

and I am here, a witness for her death;

a touch away from my toe.

 

In he moves again, at this point, knowing

the cynic out of me;

every time drowned in the corners of my eyes.

He combs my hair - a black octopus in the sky -

and over my shoulder, breathes

words I have yet to hear,

while my waist whispers,  almost next to him,

almost real in this.