Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Bust Top

At the corner of Michelson,
where the bus was supposed to be,
you took my elbows
and you shook my face.

You told me about the wind
while you folded birds out of paper
and set them loose into trees,
your hair smelling of perfume and lace.

You whispered something, but
you turned your head away
and I just assumed it was a joke,
something lacking in taste.

You boarded the bus that appeared,
your words came back on crumpled,
creased wings. "Goodbye" you said
with sea-filled eyes. "What a waste."

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