She Echoes

Warming up to the sensual murmur of a predawn dream. It was a wave troubled night the cold-grizzles bent thoughts into driftwood shapes. She echoes, her body heat can almost be seen. Who she is, is a writhing question mark beneath squeezed-shut eyelids. An ******** pumps images into flesh, an overused past simulates composite likeness’s. Erotic hothouse flowers bloom, yet they are only skin deep and wither too soon. Legs are swung over a shipwrecked bed. Head and face rubbed hard, jaws chew air, shreds of brain fuzz hang before they empty-out and fall. Not turning the kitchen light on, hands flat on the cold breakfast counter, shoulder blades moving up and down - still trying to shake her off. A last image of her floating face down in an unwashed coffee mug. In a shadowy sink, gently I wash her away.