babyhead

As your late autumn fingers cambed silver over a late autumn finger. The kohl, blacker than unlit asphalt, drawn into circumventive lines, bordered two points that took in everything that was not yours.

You held us all in your periphery.

I cared not to notice, as I touched you tall and round through you blouse. I admonished the cloudless nights and some other drivel with breath made summery by the cold. All the time dreaming of places, other than your teeth and palate, to whip my tongue against.

You were forever tethered to the goods you fenced long before I came along. After a while we spent time together in the evenings reviewing your empty photo albums. I called an agora to throw around all possibilities of filler. In the end, you would lean back in the kitchen chair, windows open to the night, the cold creeping in through the screens, smoking from my pack of cigarettes, to let me know that this was the way you liked it. Then we would be done with the talk and I would pull the cellophane from it's sticky cardboard pages if only to hear the tearing sound it made.

I was resigned and really not all that invested, happy to distract you, once or twice a night by letting you, in hushed but aspired panting, sing your secret song to me.

I might add, that a baby's touch of Quinine dropped through juniper and ice, would have been enough for me to endure your endless apneic looks, until I learned how to breath again.

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