the stories that made me
She tilts the cup
and spills a single drop,
watches it rise up
towards the ceiling
and swell into a grape.
On her lip a smile
serves in revealing
her hope that rarely
had a shape.
Her hand touches his face,
just barely,
to leave some space
for her escape.
You tremble like a flute
in his bed
half naked and delicate
His warmth a sandstorm
that wears you away
Relax You are not here
to save anyone You
are not here
to be saved
Kiss him Wake him up
(might he remember you?)
Or leave him and go
Nothing changes him
but you will peel
those sheets off
a butterfly
Or a wasp.
