he walked away from the typewriter because...
some days should not be exposed,
spent in the spin of linen sheets
and the faded light of sunrise
here, she lives in the tangle of a bed, empty
listening through paper thin walls of the past
'you were always one to fall faster than
you should'
he said
and she, confused, replied
'is there any other way to fall?'
somedays should not linger in yesterday
with glances over the shoulder
and cigarettes that finish too quickly
as she holds onto words, repetitive
framed in his mind
touched with his taste in music, merlot and camel straights
enveloping a white pillow
for want of something solid
but it gives too easily
to the pressures of her chest
sliding beneath a body, feigning indifference
that swallows the sense of a hand
tracing her neck
likening her to a frail woman,
lost in the desert with Almasy
and that is where I found her
imagining he had written books about her,
once
