Her lipstick bruises
your cheek again – cheap pharmacy purple, of all
narcissus’ blooms. In the year’s twilight
my hands, cold with longing,
bury themselves in dead words,
hoping to find love
pressed,
like some rare flower,
between the pages.
In the space between
the music and lights she turns,
oozing glitter, spiraling in the crush
of sweat and lust. She is fool’s gold,
forest-fire, ice-queen; snagging drinks
for the promise of a kiss
never given.
Outside, in the frost-stunned night,
leaves are falling
like hope.