markbousfield

The fingertrails in the cracked wash basin
lay unshaven for four days,
clean.

We slipped away in sprightly conversation
over carrot cake and teas,
the electric blue of your eye shadow
matching the t-shirt you wore underneath,
yes,
I noticed.

A rosary passed by the seasons
slight in breath on the back of my door,
ties and affection glitter in pirouettes
like lovers eyes settled on a glimpse of promise,
as does the sigh sitting on your decollete.