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Bad poetry the burnt henna roses your eyes left your head as
had not yet laid edged bodies atop my shoulder. I had not yet
held your comically wrinkles hands or mocked
your affection for the unflattery of old ladies’ clothes. Floral skirt
not yet upturned beside me from that gusting wind of
other peoples’ drinks. I had not yet held the dream between the licorice lips
of night, your own divided lips
tiny teeth-tips
each brief pulse
of carlights yet to pass through our bordering bellies
the way they would through white gemstones
well, yours a diamond
mine some clearer water but love
lies naked on
an incline.
Goodbye
