She will return tonight,

Floating silently through

Slits of darkness, sometime

In the early morning as I

Lie awake in the cold,

Just-thinning air.

She will dance upon my

Chest, not like a Japanese

Masseuse, but like a dancehall

Girl in Vaquero Band spurs.

One November day, we sat

Like sieves in the cold air.

Her hair was a veil across the

Pond of her face, and the sun

Was born in her heart. Her eyes

Pumped light through the walls

Of my flesh, and I was a shiny

New coin on display in a soft,

Smooth, palm.

Now Polaroids of those days

Are pasted on the inside of

My eyelids. They bleed my

Mind through the pores of

My eyes; through the quick

Of my heart. And she, my

Astarte, will come and go,

Sashaying through mere breeze

And fog, her negligee clinging,

And I will follow knowing the

Back side of the moon.

Want to try your hand at poetry? Email me at

Featured image credits to AMRULQAYS on Pixabay

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