Weaving, threading distracted scribbles
down the page in an attempt at narrative misdirection,
so I can pretend I’m not neck twisted and
wanting to reach for your shoulders, to
brush my cheek against your back.
The dark concentrics of spilling hair across
your fabric mesmerizes me from an oblique angle.
Flawless, you would be tart on my lips
little Miss Spattered Dress Murder,
the electricity arcing to and fro
as we take chances in the trenches of trust.
No talk, until silence has had its fill,
And the wreckage implied in her actions engulfs us.

-Bernie Deville