October

Morning quietly stands On the silver sill, Black heels puncturing the view, A faceless, coiffed character Turning its dim limbs Into deliberatly chosen landscapes, Eyes unraveled into the puddle Of dripping crimson down the edges. Her in bloom has never been riper Under the weight of the light air Smelling of fruity sweat And sweet commotion behind the skin. Close the window open And let me crawl inside her.