It’s raining outside,
but the sun seems brighter
through the window,
in a dark room.
I could see the perfect silhouette of her until she turned away, pulling the quilt. As we sit there, both of us smoking, glancing out the window and at eachother, she says, “Tell me how you love me.”
So I stooped my head towards her and she moved to turn from me a second time. In earnest, I was answering; I held her shoulders and kissed a blemish grown out of her breast.
She didn’t understand. The gesture tenderly rejecting her pretense of modesty and diffidence. She frowned at me, as she did I could imagine her thinking: he is so full of shit.
I wish she had said so.
I would have known, right then, she wasn’t for me.
