lingua franca
for the lamp prompt at xpoetic.

The wind-swept streets resound
with the flippant, clicking duet
of measured, high-heeled soles
and platinum cuff-links.
Your hand is cold in mine, separated
by twelve years
of growth and foreign company;
you'd promised to come back,
and I didn't believe you—thank you,
mistress skepticism.

I was a bitter child, one
of late-night tragedies
and prone to worst-case scenarios,
but now you're here—we’re here:
my raw silk dress pressed up
against the summer warmed lamppost
and your post-autumn hands
cradling my fledgling boned neck.

The streetlamp flickers
in the hollow of your palm,
the swan-curve of your wrist,
casting hesitant shadows,
self-doubtful and laced
with overseas exotica.

We've long since ceased
to speak the same language;
it is an unfortunate byproduct
of a decade spent marauding
in transoceanic lands,
but the press of your lips to mine
is universal enough.