Back To Hell

Her eyes, the same as my favorite cup of coffee.

Or was it the dirty mud I'd always trip into on a rainy day?

Her heart, the summer flowers, the winter snow.

But maybe it was the painful chill of the winter in New York.

Her voice, like whispers, so gentle so kind.

Or was it that of an angry lover, that of a lover.

But her hands, her spine, her neck.

Oh! What about her long legs shaded to the color of caramel.

Where'd they go?

Her angelic body. Is it far away from us?

Sometimes I swear I could hear her calling underneath my bedroom floor.

I guess she's made it back to hell again. 

k.y