Beds

Ancient. That first word, so long ago. Pillow talk. Something so old it has become a part of you. A secret.
Her skin, so pale. The color of an hour.
Tell me I am bad. No, don’t. Protect me from what I want, I will break it.
The color of porcelain. Except for the patch that stuck up.
In this light, at this hour. A thick blue-black tuft planted in the mound whose height was further accentuated by her leanness.
Her highness.
I spent several moments watching it. An animal at rest, but ever ready to attack.
© 2004 Wayne H.W Wolfson

Fecund

If we could just zero in on parts of a memory. Parts and things, curious objects, not the emotions of those moments then no one would be forgotten.
I remember being between her legs, that was her favorite. The heat. It was hot and stifling, almost too much. The oppressive atmosphere of a greenhouse combining heat with its overly sweet floral fragrance to conquer.
I must have liked it, I kept coming back. All those mornings, she left me money for a sandwich on the mantel by the blue paper flowers I had painted.
In the end she had just enough money to drink and make it end a sad story. I take a whiskey every night now, so that no matter where she is, I am with her.
I got a communicade from Berlin. It’s the busy season there for street vendors, sending Violetta’s cold body home.
© 2004 Wayne H.W Wolfson

Our Lady Of Bosendorfer

Lie to me in a kiss.
Blue eyed saint, trying to see her reflection in the still distance of the moon.
I was laughing, but that was then.
My only friend, my only critic. My forbidden melancholy. She is me, fitting perfectly into my mouth.
It’s the nature of things. Now, I’m a shadow, she’s finally mine.
Long walks, every drop of rain, a secret she must tell.
I was eating mussels, it was that season again.
On my thumb, a bit of shell found its way under the nail. The skin there is soft, vulnerable, never having faced the real world.
It would hurt more later, when I noticed it. The small carnation blooming below the surface of the nail.
Flowers for our lady.
© 2004 Wayne H.W Wolfson

Nuages

I slid in. There was the smell of wet sulfur, a match striking, but failing to light. The bed was still against the wall, where we had pushed it for the party. She lay face down. Rumpled sheets and yesterday’s news. The more promising ads sporting smudged, red ink halos.
I was a bastard for never having allowed her the fantasy of being able to change me. Then again she had her revenge by denying me the illusion of even trying to.
Our gift to each other, a bored indifference which allowed for some interesting times. Times of appetite.
I want to remember a forgotten song and the girl who inspired it.
The light played off the top of the tub, angels on the ceiling. My head dropped down onto my chest. I must have said something in my sleep.
When I woke up she was excited, eyes shinning, (bright) diamond chips on a sea of blue.
It was better this way. No one ever forgets melancholy love songs and candle light
© 2002 Wayne H.W Wolfson

Something

Something large moves. Concentrate, just under the waters surface. A long, dark spot in motion.
Long clean rhythms, a night full of jazz.
Movement churns the water, further blurring the true shape.
It’s a veil.
A past desire set adrift.
© 2004 Wayne H.W Wolfson