Radium Kiss by Theresa C. Newbill
We had cocktails and spoke of Moliere,
the usual round of poets and novelists
drawn to the gnashing chords of the
night's electricity.
Lost in the past we prayed and reached
for austere stars that reminded us to
sleep under the stirring blue spirits
of Bohemian Pines.
You laughed and took notes meticulously
summoning the aurora borealis into
the crimson residue of your pen's
dissolving breath.
A gypsy moon edged over a cliff and
brushed against my hair succumbing to
the sun's radium kiss, as I stretched under
you beneath the glowing distillation of time.
I watched while you signed your name in the
morning sky against the white palace of
the little cottage house where your bicycle
lay carefully placed, decorating the exterior.
But the screenwriter in me is skeptical that
the ride down the cobblestone streets
will leave me infinitely searching for the
open book you left on the table.
