An Other Woman
I dream in color, inchoate deja vu: brightly lit room, your lips against mine, my fingers tracing the lines of your chest. Once, a rendezvous in a park, your hands full of flowers –bright red carnations– lead me to a bench. And I wake. I possess nothing, claim nothing, exist only as a sidebar: pleasure taken surreptitiously. I write poetry, dream, imagine your fingers tangled in my hair pulling me toward you. I wait for a sea of change, some stunning feat of deus ex machina that wraps the impossible into a bow-tied happy ending. But even as I whisper my love-lorn confessions into the darkness, I know I am but one ghost in this machine and I possess no miracles.
December, 2003