She woke before me,
straining her brush through aurora strands,
smiling at the pale gown
reflected in the blue-green mirror.
When she stretches,
pink melon breasts exposed at the nipple
collect prism dew, drowning
in the throb of rehydrated crystal needles.
The vapors of her perfume are scentless,
senselessly caressing the rivers of her eyes
like butterfly winds—fluttering out
from east to west; an oriental song.
But the lantern burns—
by night she is radiantly departed:
she lays her head in my lap
and the mascara runs in shadows down my leg.
*Out of season by the title, I know, but I hope you’ve all enjoyed the cool touch of this one all the same…my contribution to what may well be the last, or one of the last One Shot Wednesdays at One Stop Poetry. It has been an honor and a pleasure, everyone. I look forward to visiting you all outside of the linkies though, and to continue basking in your poetry as time rolls on.
The Waking Den 