We’ve reached our point of saturation
on this particular rooftop, breeze
billowing the fake
silk curtains.
Let me lightly touch your forearm
another desperate attempt
to catch your
breath
this drunken gaze through the sunglasses
my white dress in the wind
and your hot arm
on shoulders
there’d be a thin film of perspiration
shortly, blended with
alcohol and
perfume
oh let me -- wipe it away,
your troubled brow,
the screwed up mouth,
I know, can produce
such lovely sounds
the sky burnt into my iris
aren’t you wearing lenses, then? –
they’d ask – the turquoise of my eyes
gaze into them, unabashed, swim
and emerge --
quite forgiven
on the other side.
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Submission Name: Sundays
