A beverage line
04/05/2012
Baby, you’re like Coke. A bit pricey, but worth every federal investigation.
-
Subscribe
Subscribed
Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
Baby, you’re like Coke. A bit pricey, but worth every federal investigation.
Deny my eyes not; your passions been seen.
I saw you push, this button after me,
so our fingered oils mingled can be –
a backed lighted lovers’ glistening gleam –
signing to the world of wondrous mergings.
Your finger pressing where my thumb caressed
lifts your adoration off this dais,
into my mind for deeper convergings…
Or is it you’re just an impatient she?
Who wishes to leave me abrupt, with tears
without hope, dreams, life, breath, not much, just pain
just so you may timely reach your true dear.
When this box opens, can I then complain
these silent moments weren’t spent with glee?
Hey Baby, you’re like a potluck dinner, cause you tease everybody’s pallet.
The wind wanders through the window filling the empty room as her gaze lifts towards the blossoming sky of water colors. Her jade eyes narrow as she watches the incandescent sun shed its last rays of heat for the day. As the moon ladders upwards she feels a faint smile take to her lips, and a sigh passes her breath to compete with the diminishing wind.
“Its been quite awhile no?”
“Eight years,” He nodded.
“Do you think we could have made it through longer?”
“Perhaps,” He said.
“What do you suppose went wrong?”
“Nothing, maybe everything?” He said.
Her hair lifts as the breeze picks up strength, and splashes across her face, thin tendrils of light-void hair sticking to her lips, just before she wipes them back hanging them behind her ears. She studies the picture in her hands for a moment, his hair a match for hers, if only sprinkled with slight tuffs of gray. As she breathes in she feels the familiar scent of weathered charcoal, and she shivers as the open window lets in another gust of a companion for the chilling wind.
“What does it mean to live?”
“To smile.” He whispered.
“Did you have fun?”
“Did you?”
“Some”
“Some” He agreed.
The wind for a moment gives respite, leaving the chilled air silent. She wipes at unformed tears that perpetually prove to be nonexistent. As she exhales she looks downwards away from the half cloaked moon, away from the picture in her hands, to the hoping grass. Each blade reaches upwards, yearning for the light of the new day. There she sees a single figure, weaving through folding the blades downwards, away from their photescent goals. She nods as if this is normal.
“Will you come for me?”
“In time” He said.
“How soon will it be?”
“Soon enough” He said
“Will we be together then?”
“Forever.”
The sinewy shadowed denizen in the grass peers upwards at her, and she leans out of the window, a hand outstretched to it. The wind recoils as a soft hiss lifts, and she beckons to the scaled head to come closer. The moon shakes its head, and pulls a cloud to mask its face. She teeters for a moment, in the empty room, and falls to lie heaped against the floor, the portrait nestled close to her heart. The moon peers out again, to witness the remainder of the night’s events. The wind turns to rain, and sheets of water file through the window, beading into a tempered puddle against the floor.
Hey Baby, you must be the goddess Persephone, cause you look like you just came from some place hot.
Long black hair glistening as if washed everyday in fresh rain water flows down to the small of her back as jaded emerald eyes peer out with a cryptic innocence from beneath windswept bangs, emphasizing the jocund smile dancing across her lips.
Our eyes meet for a moment, and as she turns in a direction away I stare. Her diminutive, graceful presence with each step she takes, towards my heart, is glorified by her form fitting dress of what my coarse knowledge of gentility can only presume is a fine Italian silk . My eyes follow, transfixed to the green – almost black in certain lights – fabric which is so thin it teeters from just a hair’s breadth of being transparent.
There’s a child at her hand, but the little furby is unimportant. What matters is how her lightly tan skin glistens in the pale glow of the evening sun, as the cascading rays are prismed off the reflective surfaces of her dress; for woven into it are leaf-like patterns made from embroidery of seemingly silver threads, most obviously accenting her airy mass.
A smile traces itself upon my lips, curling at the corners as my gaze blessedly continues with its affixation. Just as I take my first steps to follow her, something repressingly tugs from the back of my mind. If I followed, what would society say? What would Queen Victoria think? What would Elizabeth feel? Society was composed of fools, and the good queen has been dead a hundred years, besides in the light of this denizen of heaven Elizabeth pales. Humility after all, urges that I humbly accept what beauty the governing cosmos has seen fit to afford me.
With a whispered note of gratitude for the alignment of the celestial forms that rule my fate, I prepare myself to follow. Roughly I comb my matted hair with a calloused hand. Then by bringing my proletariat phalanges to my face, and breathing upon their cupped collective to check my breath, I steel myself. With a nod of satisfaction, I move forward. Aiming my left foot with the precision of a sniper, I begin to touch the pavement before me, when I lose my balance and trip.
Damn these too big shoes.
Hey Baby, you’re like Baloo. You’re one of those bare necessities of life.
Hey Baby, you must be Pocahontas, cause you don’t step in the same river twice.
Hey Baby, you must be a sloth. Cause when it comes to being pretty, you’re lazy.
Doctaji 