(Published on The Writers Club)
A delicate stroke
of an old nude painting
rests between her lips
with a kiss wakes her
not in the glimmer of affection.
Her phone is breaking up again,
repeating my sins since late last then.
I blinked open to a sunrise lingering between
the chandelier’s wolves.
I’ll be scaling trains to flee the city of your scent.
But everywhere I wake up, standing
above me is the form of me you’ve got locked
in a death-grip: a sultry smile.
There you are, waiting, begging, imagining
a white dress in which you’ll fit.
(© 2022 AC)