as published in Dream Catcher Magazine
Brunette I used to see. Still see. Hair drooping over her shoulders like wet curtains of seduction, drying at the tips and at the fringe, brushed back behind those ears I loved to kiss. Would love to kiss. I’m still completely submerged in her. Her legs dangling over the edge like towels hanging out to dry, her wrinkly fingertips linked in mine, the sweetness of wine on her breath, and the taste of it leaving my head an irreversible mess. She was chaotic, and this is not a love poem.