Long side long glance
tied to dark hair, dark eyes
Being alone is a cleared space.
Nervous smiles,
unstepped separation.
Your presence empties rooms.
Your coy smiles attract with spikes,
hooks on strings,
tearing and turning,
burning with your perfume.

"Delicate: Hand wash" labels the tension in the air
as we are crushed against the wall with the night wings of mosquitoes,
your image antagonizing our dreams.

You are the whining hum turning the room into a pen of dogs.
A feathered shaft of Shakespeare's poetry,
finding only the blood of the heart.
A chair poises you like a bowstring;
every breath is the rippling flight of certain death.

Sheathed in self satisfaction,
a sword of solitude,
perpetually teetering on the edge of attraction,
your undrawn attention is silent mocking laughter.