the dancer

she is a horizontal dancer.
on benches and beaches and beds.
her arms outstretched, hands twirling.
soft breath and a silhouetted chest.
her body curves around my fingers.
we taste of smoke and liquor and lust.

she devours me.

~

the hospital released her last month, so she is on her way home. but home is always changing, a sea of cities and countries crashing against her shores. the entire world is tattooed upon her. she says she wants to find a fierce love. a grand, numinous romance. says she needs something to save her. i tell her she has already saved herself. the night stars stick to us, we feel the weight of other worlds. the burden of the past. the gravity of our words. there’s a lesson here to learn, i just can’t seem to find it. its easy to fall in love and even easier to forget. i confess to her my own addictions, and apologize for my childishness.

a bungalow bed awaits us,
and we can’t seem to get there fast enough.
a rain storm steals the sky,
but i’m already drowning in her eyes.

~

cigarette sex with champagne abandon.
she burns holes in all my bed linen. i hold her close, fearing she’ll disappear, but dawn breaks and somehow she’s still here.

her phone is full of questions she will never answer.
my head is full of riddles i will never resolve.

she is the derelict & the dancer, reflecting light among these faceless stones.
i am the wanderer & the wayward, a tepid poet practicing being alone.
as Patti said, i’m just tramping, trying to make heaven my home.

~

in the morning her earring is missing, hidden in a nest of stained sheets. i’ll find it and keep it as a charm, but i’m not sure it will be enough to save me.

(koh phangan, thailand)

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About Eric Skelton