Cork In Hand

My drapes are drawn tight, in the morning of our afternoon, after the fall – beyond the light of a silent evening spent. Dusk spits a new shine upon the facets of my mood ring and sunrise alarms me again. Fish hooks evenly lure my smile into place - when bated breaths are baited by an anticipated gentry - and the inverted frown I wear stretches undetected when performing index-fingered handstands for the empty allured. Such a celebration am I. A firecracker when we kiss. "The sun sets in his eyes... succulent, cabbage-red and resplendent…” Clichéd stammering; dulled as you turn your softly curved frame into a prisoner's unresolved sensitivities. Nonetheless...the innocent know - His touch is real. Feathered, soft - even when the entranced cripple is sobbing. Roman candles sparkle within a distant vagabond’s eyes. Starch him! Savor the moment! He'll voluntarily burst forth - and everything you'd want from a strayed waif's aorta will be auctioned back... and eventually sold. Like ruby-hued vegetables. Like drawn drapes. Like morning… when biting your pillow case neatly grinds waking into the laughable... …and a forgotten sunrise toasts the unremembered misfit as an invisible champagne cork - pops!