She's standing at the arched window,
opalescence whispering from the glass
beneath her palms to show how warm
she'd feel in my hands,
but I don't touch her. She knows I'm there,
I see skin rising,
goosebumps stir from her back
and her spine rolls towards me
like a harp string. She is velvet, she is
freesia smelling hair and she is a candle.
There is silence while our nervous
systems banter, and I almost move.
The glass shudders, then a brittle sound
like a snowflake crashing.
Someone's screaming, and it sounds nothing
like a concerto note.
I taste dark foreign metal,
grimly realize I've bitten my tongue.
She pivots in my periphery; I'm staring at a bird
framed in the haze of handprint and new,
rippled cracks, white wings and blood and insides
before it falls out of sight.
She is running, clumsy and irritatingly
pigeon toed,
and she is nothing like a daydream.
I turn away, disgusted,
still tasting my own tongue.