bohemia
( PUT IT IN YOUR POCKET? )
Afterwards, he cannot bring himself to talk to her, though the reason escapes him.
Perhaps because true contact, beyond an illusion, would shatter the ideas that he has construed and constructed in her absence. Reality would destroy that, and he is at a loss: it is because he is ignorant of her true personality that he cannot say which is better.
Now she does not haunt him in the shadow of day.
Instead she haunts him in the shadow of night.
She appears to him in his dreams, left in lipstick traces of glass; forgotten bangles and whispers imprinted messages in between his clavicle.
Occasionally, the gypsy appears in flesh and head, always a florid of colours and glimpses, highlighted against neon buildings and smoke.
From out of the darkness she emerges, lidded eyes always tempting him, heavy with more than first intimacies. Her arms slip down his shirt, and their limber legs entwine together.
It's more than hello and less than goodbye.
Her lips invite his, biting when he yields, and now his hands are in her hair and together they cut angles that pleasure knows no bounds and logic knows no reason.
Her slim shoulders bump against his chest and together they snap in two, branches breaking again and again.
And then, just before the moment he wakes, she vanishes; melding with the water and every ripple that is formed. She floats away, more unattainable with each ending dream.
He wakes up and thinks he hears the ghost of her laughter.
He wakes up and thinks she looks better in green.
