Tonight is silence
even
deliberate
Pulled taffy
I am belted into the spectator's chair
into myself.
i choke on my breath
my dream, a movie
begins

she meets him in a coffee-shop
a picture of femininity
Torn from a 1940's magazine
her red hair betrays her dress
It finds itself wrapped in butcher's paper
his eyes linger to consume it
A precise triangle brought to a babooshka knot
beneath her slight chin
Yet somehow closer to her thighs

He leads her to a singular house on a frozen street
a postcard of spain held against the sun
Caught in the olive complexion of his skin
her fingers brush the peeled white paint of the door
Wooden and hollow, it reminds her of the slouch in her hips
and the things she needs

He pauses and leans on the lattice beside her
considering the veins in the ivy covering it
Supressing his instinct, he is shaking
afraid to glance out the open window next to her
Movements of his hands dare her
she finds release in his gestures

Upon drawing the blinds shut
she spins back to embrace him
Wind rustles through the fabric
his scent is the window sill
It is all that is left

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