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The Willow

In the choreography of us, there was always
someone in silhouette standing in the wings;
love is a fragile thing but we took a hedonistic
approach and greedily consumed to the last hiccup.

Sitting on the rough concrete balcony, a plaid rug,
a breathless night, you held me in the shrug of it,
plotting stars, sending out spirals, a calligraphy
of sorts and the sport of kisses that shivered

I quivered in your arms, bent and flexed like the willow,
the sappling inside of me, too young to know,
that splinters happen even in the roughest of skins,
hurt becomes an echo, that's when barriers are built.

Too much wine, perspiration on heat sated skin,
your whispers, the way your lips moved,
then the premonition, watching shooting stars,
the ether of us, just a lingering trail of

limbs juxtaposed, youth and agility, those slight gasps,
a rasping on a heart, not yet ready for storms.
You were morning, moon and Mars, passion red,
the burning dust of a desire, set to consume.

We drank the mists, consumed the mystery of lunar lights,
my delight in the simple tasting of you, an essence
and an ending in such inglorious surroundings, formica
and spotlights on a love, that couldn't last the night.

Poetry by Elle