Melatonin Hung Over

sad skies full of rain
threatened but not
delivered, not quite

the breathing heads of
dying kittens simmer
ceaselessly in a stew
of grey and bloody

she arrives

tall, thin, cadaverous
as a SuperModel, with
eyes of jet and starlight,
the sweven hybrid of us

she wants me,
only me, all of me,
just me, and she has
as she has always had
in that strangle hold of
Death and Life
available only to
a child

we walk

she becomes a waif,
a pixie-perfect baby
ballerina from the
Ballets Russe, her long
legs out stepping me,
out stepping me, her
perfect changement
punctuating each
bend in our

she turns

waiting and not
waiting, as I
listening to the
hiss of kitten head
stew resound down
the hall

© srogers 29 july 2012

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