A tear flits down lace sleeves
towards her owner's varnished nails,
and I can't help but notice the dark curls of hair,
that wisp around her throat, erratic
and vengeful - but nothing compared to the
pearls that dress her collar bones purely
so that the eye of the passerby is drawn
immediately to her - always.
She moves like the bow of a violin; rising
and falling - bold and bashful and never the same.
She radiates coldness that is so inviting
it's impossible not to throw yourself into her
like a hare into the night of a polarizing winter.
There's something more though: a smirk?
She knows they're staring, and her body
twists and weaves from strings to silk
and her sultry hands, tear soaked wrists rise
and vanish into the ballroom sun
as she pries her way through the bodies - no interest in
anyone else, but keenly aware of every single person in the room,
she tropes like she knows them all like the patterns of the lace
that run down her sanctimonious arms.
Desperate and reclusive
she moves still
and looks at everyone and no-one at all.
The cellos join and the poise on her face remains,
but her eyes are melancholic like hues of blue strewn across the sky
at twilight. She doesn't really care to be known,
only noticed,
and noticed only for the way she dances.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Journal
PuisiJust a collection of thoughts and feelings collected into a journal, mostly as a capsule for my own thoughts at the time, but of course available for your enjoyment. Hopefully some of you all will see yourselves in these virtual pages. -S.M. Vezina
