Lemon Drop







Your taste is bittersweet

on my mind’s tongue.

The hero unsung.

You drift in twilight’s fog

into the voiceless dreams

of despairing hearts.

You breathe momentary life

into “what if?”

and by dawn you are gone.

You are everything I’ve ever wanted

to run away from.

And yet I wait curiously

perched on the edge of my seat

for the slightest brush of your air

against mine.

I want to breathe you in,

but your smoky composition

is recycled and stale.

I require more,

but might have settled for less

had I watched the sun rise

through your strands of hair.

If only your words lingered

and rested in the midday

crinkles on my pillow

while the soothing rotations

of the ceiling fan

cooled our damp sheets.

Instead, I am here alone

waiting for your image to dissolve,

into the sweet aftermath

which follows your bitter bite.

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