You know it, before
The fog had dissipated
Because it smelled like rain and honey
And she only shaved her legs on sad days

It was indeed
The skirt,
With the rosebuds
Splitting down the thigh
Like an
Unorthodox surgery

The skirt,
That laid your veins out
In thin strips
Along the operating table

Her shadow is that of a candelabra,
Skinny,
Straight
Bones of brass
Melting swiftly down the corridor

Just along the hallway,
To your left,
Theatre 3

You told the man
Not to rip the ticket, no.
It’s a souvenir. 

You had an admit one
To her
Body

Her calves
Like Gemini’s cheeks
Blushing bright against
The pale light
Doorknobs wavering
Wanting
Waiting

If the floor was lava,
Just like it was when you were young,
oh
She’d very much be
A pretty burn victim

Stains are hard to get out,
Everyone knows this,
As the particles of popcorn kernels
Strike the cotton
Such as a
Rifle bursts along
Feeble flesh

Those asteroid eyes,
They never do meet yours
Hands never
Weave as one

You’re waiting for someone to
Notice
But it’s only her

You don’t help her up,
For
She looks too beautiful,
Blossomed out on the carpet like that