What Does She Want
Her gown is on the white sheets,
white on white
We have met each other again,
then we are again this moment,
a repeat episode.
If there is a moon hovering over this city
it is adrift in its own speculative sky,
night stares baldly black
between high window drapes.
There is a red candle, she lights it
electric eyes blink out.
How long is it now, two maybe three years?
I know I have changed,
maybe she can sense that
maybe that strangeness intrigues her?
On that last evening
the glow of a shared cigarette;
her confession of another hidden relationship.
I remember her body most.
but of course her delicate pensive mood,
her features shrouded by a revelation
she ached to reveal, not to hurt
but to absolve an ongoing lie,
pillow talk really,
a recognition that in the end
we were never going to be
that significant, the way
her shoes were to a matching dress -
understandable.
Now we are in this new place,
yet my place is beside another
(another missed opportunity).
I watch her undressing
apart from the obvious
what does she want?
The candle flickers, shadows mimic the act,
of course hungers should be met,
of course we had to do this one more time
both knowing that the future
held no new script for us.
Sometimes what we want
is that alter-image of ourselves
seen in a better light,
a more meaningful world
we wished we both belonged to.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
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