markbousfield

BLONDE

How hard it is to sit half hearted,
with a bottle of wine and glass open wide
we talked for a time,
eyes walking a line
as we laughed at the way we used to dance.

New Wave, an emboldening phrase
for the gutless and depraved,
more an enclave of the enslaved
than the better faith of a deadening smile
stroking across my face.

I don't know what these things mean to me,
I beat up
cover over
seek out
the words that fell over my lips,
it's pear cider breath and empty promise
lovingly not looking my way.

Just the hint of feminine musk in my nostrils incites
cut breath,
sharp sighs,
gooseskinflush.

Tailored and meandering confession
contrite and heartfelt
from at least the place I wanted to believe I had before,

simple things like the thoughtful gift
and the squeal and smile passing across her face,
a brief moment of joy and unimagined fondness
highlights the opportunities I most certainly have missed.