Parking lot Strega
I spill myself across you;
you being the explosive light bulb pumping oxygen,
and a vortex of electricity through me,
empty but for the jolt of you:
you tapping your knee in jest beckons
me to sit upon you,
lay myself out in full view of the morning,
a parking lot strega mesmerized by the grave-shift
smokers in their dirty fingernails,
torn cloths regalia,
I am the emperor of this oligarchy,
this fluid motion,
princess of the partaking nightshade
where I am constantly at odds with myself.
I cannot remember what it felt like before mourning
the severing of you from my hands,
the lines on my fingers wrenched away with your departing.
The unapologetic winter, tire flat
on this side of paradise, a woman
exposed in the grandeur of the missed moment.