She is
Following the signals and signs intertwined, or
adjourned at the sinuous crowded streets, lights
bite and tend towards flux confrontation with herself,
and others who claim to be but are not, those
wolves show their fangs when you are alone, atone,
not as quick as they disappear doddering in the shadows, prodding
hands grasping at your image to distort it, that
greedy cur sapping you of the little company you have, loose
lips try to steal stars but rejection can be just as cold, fold
that hand at twilight to expel the warmth needed, when
doubting yourself or it allow time to swell over, continuation
not destruction craves to exist,
a kiss that floats heavenly in the air,
startled by the chimes rustling in the back,
imagining a soul that can bring that smile alive.
She is
That last star on a fogging night,
bright as a pearl engulfed by the heavy ocean,
a potion for enchanting days to produce ample prose,
but those purple blankets terrorize my mind,
raining my cheeks with memories and memoirs,
tighten my throat with that brisk grip so I can’t talk,
some pain functions as a creative spur,
haunting renditions of what will happen in the coming months,
shrouded by the damp gales of Chicago at her door
waiting for that familiar sound of fumbling and that beacon
like a lighthouse cutting through smog,
until that gateway is open and her eyes blare into mine
on that sullen blue night,
dressed in everything that I left,
waiting for the first words to conjure,
will I know,
who she really is.
