Sage Saturdays (coins are for cons)
by Charlotte E. Wilde
The woman on the balcony across from me is watering and pruning her flowers with a meticulous care. It seems that today is like every day, my mind is tracing imaginary wrinkles that distance won’t afford and hovering in the blue grey haze of her hair. Only this morning I’m absent, watching nimble fingers pluck petals deemed wanting, while my body’s present is remembering you. You left yourself traced on my skin– scalding souvenirs that call you back to me as a involuntary reflection or voluntary correlation of hazy refraction. I’m swirling my coffee but my fingers keep finding the blue places yours left when wine was our dinner and bridges sang sweetly of mouths for desert.
Bold as a morning you washed my mind clean, eyes tracing mine and hands looped in my hair dragging me towards absolution riding on the temptation of a touch. When my head hit the wall without your hand to break the fall of my heart you walked your fingers down my rocky spine with the resonating crunch of fresh snow. Softly, darkness wrapped us in it’s linking arms until we forgot to count the hours by, sliding towards one another and further from reality’s fading pull on the shift of a song like a madeleine that slid down your throat and traced a glistening path along my collarbone. I fell tumbling, Alice’s looking-glass shot down to size, when you set my mouth free but kept my fingers prisoner whispereing pooling secrets in my ear. The weight of your gaze held me steady as the rumbling ground beneath our feet when you kissed the city’s streets good-night, and yes, your teeth sink slowly but love, you have so many arms. I looked away– long lined slack against you as a melting moment slipped from my lips to my knees until light sent us running for home, two thieves of a morning never meant for such traveling eyes.
So the sun comes up again and I look up at the balcony where, like the swaying form of her shoulders, I imagine we could water our secrets and set them in the sun to grow. Straight stems tell a tale of bridges abridged with summer mouths that sing until we toss them happily away and watch them ripple down. I think our leaves will turn to lily pads for diving-bell memories and locks that shift in the deep, but surely such things must be hidden in the shadows of all the arches across this yawning city, winking from each secret street.
So I sit sipping my thoughts and sifting my coffee. On Saturday, you held me like a secret. Sunday morning, I hold you like a sigh.