White-Colored Flesh

From my window, I watch your large hands work.

I sigh, putting the flowers in water.

They smell better than the meatloaf.

Your buss leaves behind the smell of saliva and ketchup.

As you bury the trowel,

In an old dis-remembered chest.

Those that harbor the wallpaper,

Of white colored flesh.

The gentle motion of my hand,

Rising slowly with each breath.

I skim my lower lip against the back of your arm.

At peace with your dreams,

And your frail sleep-like state.

I, with my muted memories.

That fog up my windows,

Like old lovers on a cool winters night.

It could almost be a fairy tale,

I just can’t.

Let.

My.

Hair.

Down.

Yet.

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