She is highly compressed stardust
dancing down from the firmament.
A ballet, swirling bouquet of jasmine,
teal and blustery gray rain days;
I am a struggling Cartesian metaphor
doubting my own existence.
She is tingling triangles tremulous between
a rising baritone brass and a Dizzy lung
crescendo. A promenade Madonna’s
twilight glint–a wink. I am a shudder shoulder
moment fourteen feet away;
a falling glass of liquid memories on ice.
She is a wild call beneath a sauntering
solstice moon. A pondering wanderer skipping
stones beneath my tripping feet. I am bungled,
a sandy column of ancient marble dissipating in
the hot breath of a summer hermetical.
We are lopsided, turned around. Sparkling
ruby promises of childhood shattering beneath
anxious, wooden toes. One hand gripping dancing fingers,
one hand reaching for the exit. We are highly compressed
stardust dancing down from the firmament–
patiently waiting for the other to speak.