rain across my wrist
and like the sky above me
your face clouds over
eyes hidden in a gray swirl of emotion
with lightening flashes of silver
you look darkly dangerous
threats framed by strands of hair
i think you hate me
i think we have reached the end
i think i need to go
before i collapse beneath
the weight of your gaze
a fallen angel at your feet
is that what you want?
you continue to watch me
heavy and wet
dragging me down
thunder echoes in my ears
or is that the beating of my heart?
i turn to walk away
but a hand catches my own
pulls me back into the storm
of your eyes
and it is then i feel it
rain across my wrist
brushing her hair
i sit on the bed
watching her brush her hair
with a long toothed comb
her hair tumbling down her back
like a golden rainfall
stroke after stroke
like her mother used to
starting from the bottom
and working her way up
slowly lovingly perfect
her nightgown slips
to the elbow of one pale arm
she?s humming along with
the song on the radio
her hips sway to the rhythm
entrancing
and i get up from the bed
walk to where she?s standing
kiss her there, and there, and there
her smile a reflection in the mirror
one hand finds her waist
the other takes the comb
and begins brushing her hair
slowly lovingly perfect
working my way up
from the bottom
like her mother used to
------------------
No matter what we have come through, or how many perils we have safely passed, or how imperfect and jagged our life has been, we cannot in our heart of hearts imagine how it could have been different. As we look back on it, it slips in behind us in orderly disarray, and, with all its mistakes, acquires a sort of eternal fitness, and even, at times, a poetic glamour.
-Randolph Silliman Bourne
