Empty Hourglass

The nail polish shimmered
and sent sparks flying toward my face.

It burned down into my skin
and made my heart scream.
     I had to tear off this
costume - my enchanting hour was complete
and I was nude now,
covered in cool sweat and brown skin.

But the souvenirs of my witchcraft
were ever present,
the remnants of my time
as a Goddess.

But I was mortal and fragile tonight,
the nail polish had to go.
     I did not crave the
immortality it promised.

I could not hold it in,
for that promise was vast
and dark like the ocean
and engulfed me
and submerged me into its depths
as I whispered my longings to the moon.

Le Coup de Foudre

The night, soft and smooth,
seeped across the sky.
It dripped light in tiny drops,
and filled our eyes with moonlight.

Foreign,
but welcome, effervescent
and breathtaking.

Tell me, Love. Was it that magic of France
or the last sip of wine,
that caused our lips to touch?

Puppy!

It came in a pretty blue box.

Saddled in satin and
bright glitter,
the bow echoed the fragility
of the hidden contents.

It came, sleeping,
on pink tissue paper -
covered, save for a tiny furry ear.

One eye open,
it peeked at me, cautiously,
as I raised the little thing
from the superfluous packaging.

Desperation, Born of Love

I'm afraid of this solitude;
it is all I can do not to break,
for want of his touch and soft whispers.

The Ripped Weaving

One's every pretenses ripped away,
the tapestry called Civility, unraveled in a single pull,
where the small rip was borne.

One's every plan destroy,
systematically; intriguingly
slow is the destruction

and the images of the past
and the hopes of the future,
all the bright reds and pinks and whites.
Swept away into the fire
in a moment of tearful
passion.