Promises

He stood before me.

I watched his hands.  Insufferably

elegant

for one such as he.

 

Hands undo me, after all.

 

Nails so neatly clipped.

Soft, slender fingers

too delicate for a man

such as he.

 

And I thought the move much too graceful

as he reached inside his pocket,

   considering the slight tremor I watched flutter

vibrations surrounding us

         colours sacrificially bleaching  to

desert bones

 

Looking up.  into his eyes

I understood

      of course

And wondered

at the flight of fancy I’d allowed myself

 

Those beautiful fingers and

what I knew he disguised there.  A single one.

Just one.

“I can’t do this.”

 

~~

 

Paris is flawless in the Spring.  It held me

that year in delicate, elegant divulgence

shortening my breath

absolving broken glasses

         extenuating circumstances

 

And when I returned

his hands

were

calloused.  And surly.

 

I stepped back

in my colourful bioluminescence

watching the gracefulness of my

own fingers reaching ...

 

“I won't do this . . .”

Reviews

[Moflo]

I love the way this poem escalated. The weathering of "his" fingers really speaks a lot, rather Paris crippled his artistic charm or he has lost some form of innocence, either way, it was depicted brilliantly. I personally saw him as a soldier in war, but it can be interpreted different ways. Very nicely written! Great work!

[John Jackson (El Juero)]

Beautiful story. A bit sad. I felt hesitation and longing. Soon I will see Paris again, in Autumn, with my true love...

Excellent write and read.

[Luke Ritta]

love this poem......good work!

[Arthur Henn]

Looking up. into his eyes
I understood
of course
And wondered
at the flight of fancy I’d allowed myself

Wonderful (J)

[Brad]

great story behind the verses!