When She Changed Her Mind

The sea caught up in the strands of her hair, a hurricane
wind in the brown of her eyes
We danced a question and answer session,
and my fingertips burned to touch
the bird-fragile line of her collarbone.

Poe’s black cat haunting her steps,
a dead promise hanging from every claw
And she could not hear my begging through the howling cries,
But still my fingers burn to touch
the bird-fragile line of her collarbone.

And still I recall the unexpected hunger
of lips, the weight of her
amusement and her fear on my belly
and thighs, the anxious hope
that burst to life then died in my throat.

There’s a scrapbook I keep in the nest of my hair –
snapshots and snippets and scraps; I take them out
at night to count them: one-hundred
emails saved, one-thousand tweets perused,
three dates, ten kisses, several million giggles.

But the sea has swept her away again, the black cat
howling at her heels, the ravens – oh so cliche – calling
her to the throne of her own demise,
though still my fingertips burn to touch
the bird-fragile line of her collarbone.


*somewhat rough around the edges still…

Signed,
Silent Sister

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