She's whispering, "give
into me," knowing
full well that
you're in too
deep. Knowing full
well she's stollen
your sleep. Along
with your thoughts
and desires. Sitting
next to her
skin on fire
she's driving you
nowhere fast with
her left foot
propped on the
dash. All four
windows rolled down
in the middle
of December. She's
out of gas
playing DJ with
her finger as
you try and
take the wheel.
From Old French
you're one who
lies in wait,
to see: Voire.
Both up close
and afar. Her
legs slightly ajar.
She's made you
a voyeur. In
other words you're
voyeuristic. She makes
her prey a
statistic. She's an
angel with sadistic
fears that make
her favor flight
over fight even
though she's strong
enough to win
or lose she
will never draw.
A quintessential princess
on a lily
pad whimsically tipping
diamond dotted dominoes
with her tip
toes that are
painted different colors
like the prism
beams that reflect
from her eyes
which paralyze your
intention. To collect
from her bank
involves an interest
of time. Barbiturates
taste like candy
in comparison to
the way she
holds your hand
under the table
while you watch
her lashes dance
in the candle
light at dinner.
She's made you
believe in science
over Jesus and
it's only the
first course but
the way her
sleeve drapes off
her shoulder is
a touch of
Venus and you
want to connect
the dots of
freckles on her
unveiled skin to
create constellations more
genius than Orion
in your night
sky eyes which
have become two
microscopes scanning an
organism more complex
than the atom.
Eve looks like
an angel compared
to her mischievous
glances that suggest
you're wearing her
down. And out
of no where
she looks like
a child, yet
another trance she
uses to transfix.
She's a sip
as strong as
brandy and a
hit of something
unknown. One dose
has got you
dosed is all
you know and
you're hoping this
trip won't stop.
