stevieqgray

Stratford-Upon-Avon, April, in the rain

I see her,
fidgety April wind teasing
twists of her long, dark hair
across lips,
full and pouting,
reddened the colour of stop-signs.
I see her,
leant against the concrete walls
chilly blankness,
underneath the overhang,
so the pale April sun
catches on cheekbones, collar bones,
chipped out of soapstone,
but the rain misses her.
I see her shiver against damp air
brushing the strip of exposed white skin
where jeans and jacket
dont quite meet,
and Im in lust.
I see her bangled hand
reach into the bag
bumping the slice of her hip,
come up with a pack of smokes,
and Im in love.
Just for a second or so
- as those red vinyl lips
coat a cigarette filter
glossy blood-stained,
as her lighter strikes sparks
in bottle-green eyes
before they sweep closed,
dark and smudgy with kohl,
on the inhale -
just for that second,
I swear its love.
I see pristine skin tighten
against the damp, cool edge of the breeze.
I see her throat twitch
as she breathes in smoke,
a taut, hungry motion,
and I think
perhaps Ill speak to her.
Perhaps Ill say something
incisive and brilliant,
and shell laugh,
and then everything else
will fall into place.
Perhaps...
But no.
Instead,
I just watch
from behind dark glasses,
as her boots kick restless rhythms on the pavement,
and I smoke my own cigarette,
and concentrate on sheltering from drizzle.
Its better this way,
probably.
Probably,
all we have in common
is a shared craving for nicotine,
the desire to keep out of the rain.



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