As we slide across Thursday’s chilly exterior
Our temples burrow under Peacoat bundles.
Bohemian sunsets told in true colors
Fold under the cloak
Of a jet-black tortoise shell.
Underneath, flesh-colored waves lap
In tempo like a kissing dog upon your arrival.
This, your interior, begs to inhale a November gust.
But it is fearsome. To cope, you wax
and wane, bob and weave, strategically
You breathe in
The Usual Rhythms.
The common time keeps
your shell defined.
Sliding baubles, we are sweet spheres
Of momentary exchange.
The stranger’s rhythm with a coda
Threatens to liquidate layers.
You faded the ink of the heart on my sleeve.
You shaped my shell without my blessing.
Robbed me of brevity.
I will lacquer my lips with velvet and stone
To seek your disfiguring pull, and atone.