I can’t hold her for comfort; we both might be dying.
She talks to herself and we who tune in
I look for the glint in her eye aimed at me.
Sometimes I dare think it has come, and I listen,
rapt, but obviously she is so pretty
that many a loner like I in our cities
will follow, and keep track and reach out with ditties
of our own.
She dots her eyes with elegant black liner,
pale pink plastic earrings straight from Mystic Pizza,
crossing her tees with her gold name: Carmina.
Brown eyes, bouncy curls drop, dip-dyed, framing features
straight-cut teeth form nibbles on words made to crinkle
the eyes of the viewer, whose silence speaks volumes
a void of reaction cuts hearts that should mushroom.
Side-pony, I see you, in all your striped glory,
turn up, ticketed, at your observatory.
Words dripping down to her mouth from scared rock,
lips built to keep secrets; lease poems like flock,
curl carefully curated sounds to a vigil
to petrified caves that crumble at her dimples.
Originally published on Alpha Female Society on 18.07.20