Not Lost in France

Poetry

Another November.

Words scattered
like
confetti
filling
in the empty
space
where silence
crossed swords
with battling chopsticks,
your pale fingers
reaching
quickly to
snatch them
back.
Too many things
too soon,
then your inevitable
retreat
as you filled
your glass
with silent
tears
mixing them
deliciously with the
gin
and your own
ruin.
I would have kissed
your distant lips
at that
very moment
as I would a
childs
instead I scattered
my
own
confused confetti
before a frosted starlit
sky
whispered to us
both
to
say
goodnight.

Dance.

Gypsy
eyes
catching
the reflection
of
the swirling
skirt that
hid
the legs
I'd come to
know
so well,
a fleeting moment
gathered
with both
hands and
stored
for a
rainy day.
I smiled
at her
youthful
twirls
and watched
as she
danced
the night away
defying the stars
to
outshine
her.