Yellow Sweater

I wait with a cup of tea,
for the tears ro fall. 

The tea is too hot to drink,
so I burn my mouth. 

I burn myself 
on ginger and mint. 

I sip until the tea is gone.  

Hands smell like the things they have touched. 
Grubby, they are clean. 
Because what could be more filthy
Then a human without perfume. 

To absorb a smell you must commit. 
You must grimace. 

She sits next to me on my favorite bench. We stare at the street, watching other people. In the early evening light they all look the same. But she is too close for the darkness to obscure her delicate details.

We ate blackberry-pie under the stars.
On our backs, bathed in the distant light,
we read a story. 
It was about Good and Evil. 

They raised their swords, 
galloping into the rising sun. 

The only things I could possibly rhapsodize are your words
Because they are explicit,
Powerful and tremulous, 
But explicit.
Everything else description would only dirty. 

I sat with my hands on my lap, waiting for the train. The station was dark and damp. My still wet eyelashes fluttered. The drops that fell into my eyes were tiny, so gentle they could almost be the beginning of tears.