Flames
by
Anna Evans
Now,
as approaching sunset chars
the
paper sky,
bone-chilled
as any mortal woman,
more
lonely, I
invoke
your body, eyes and mouth
then
question why
we
never kissed.
There
are few pleasures that are pure
but
kissing’s one—
a
bee alighting on a pink—
tryst
in the sun,
unlike
the twisting, bare embrace
that’s
damply done
in
dark’s tight fist.
I
would have pressed my lips to yours
with
modest fire,
to
learn your touch and not your body—
my
desire.
We
burn these thoughts to ashy dust
only
to die here.
Regretting
this.
©
2006 by Anna Evans
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