she was sitting in an old chair, but she wasn’t in repose.
she was laughing at you.
she was looking at the way you hold her fingers like an infant,
searching for a person in a person right in front of you.
she had been stealing, but not for love.
she was stealing a book on how to take a shove
she was minding her own damn buisness.
she was in your arms.
she had her sweet, sweet song,
and liked to think she had your tongue
which dovetailed on her lost nomadic sentences
you never caught her kissing under false pretenses
and when her words started dripping out like smoke
within the wooded moss, the fog grey air like a brush stroke
you found an orange myrrh baloon in the sky and it was her
happy to become smaller and smaller
pointless as a gunpoint, barely much asunder
lightweight, featherweight, bit of string and whispering
take a shove and leave a shove, it’s cheaper by the dollar.
Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry