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.