Blue silk, the scarf worn
by the woman in the window
of the cafe on the corner,
a cup of steaming coffee lifted to her lips,
alone, waiting for a companion,
perhaps.
I watched her for a while,
the rain on my face, on my lips -
the rain tastes different in Paris.
I am not a woman like she is a woman.
Instead, I have that feeling of falling,
I have no faith in wearing blue silk.
I wear blue armour, carry a rusted shield,
scars like tattoos on my back - ink is permanent.
I have left people behind.
I have broken rules.
I envy the blue silk, the steaming coffee, and
note again that rain tastes different in Paris.
He always orders pie when we eat out
and sits in a dangerous silence,
flicking a lighter on and off,
high voltage.
He likes to overhear conversations,
mimicking in monstrous detail,
the grievances and love notes,
silly man.
He insists I wear fishnet stockings;
likes the red lines they leave on my legs.
I don’t like fishnet stockings.
He does.
He contains the violence of the tides,
the bruised sky of a spent storm.
In my lap, a book furtively read,
‘How to Love a Monster’.
Tastes like honey
he said, as he
licked the sweat
from my breast.
Like a string of pearls
he sighed, as he
ran his fingers
down my spine.
i don’t need a map
he murmured, I know you
by heart, his hand following
the road of my hip.
By candlelight you are
a shadow, he said, a
ghost that haunts,
i'll never sleep.
