But then I did fall -
slowly
at first, like a baby learning to crawl;
like snow
falling softly to the empty ground.
And I began to love the way
he read: how he was
never
without a well worn book in between his
cigarette fingers.
And I noticed his
lopsided smile
and the way that it chased itself across his face,
its only shadow
a threading dimple.
And I admired his
deftly dealt cards and
the careful way that they took up his
fraying left pocket;
the way that he played them,
the way that he spun them
so hypnotically:
black
red
black
red.
YOU ARE READING
Drowning | ✓
PoetryWhen Lota fell for him it was like falling off a cliff: drowning was inevitable. Poetry #45 [13.10.14] Romance #453 [14.10.14]