Drinking Under the Moon

"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

They.

She, all silk and powder
Red lipped, soft skinned, doe eyes that look up and flutter,
Small voice of kind words and an intimate giggle –
One that only he, sat inches near, could hear.

A sad face rests upon his words, drinking each one
She is filled with the rhythm they bring.
Leaning, craning to cover that small space between.
She is like a willow whose leaves draw to water,
A succubus that scoops each piece that he will give.

A touch, to fill the gap so quickly given is withdrawn.
The unsureity of the thing reveals delicate anxiety,
She cares to be careful, you see.
Her brokenness is wrapped so delicately like the silk of her dress,
Draped to cover, yet just to reveal delicious docility –
Softness like nectar to bees to these men she sees.

He, with eyes like those, like magic,
Wine-dark worlds that drowned a sea of women like her.
So sure in the rhythm of his words as they carelessly flutter
From careless lips.

Mars to his Venus, he leans in an almost sleep.
From this effort, a panorama lets his mind dance from table to table
He views his night as if a painter of a canvas
A study in her,
A study in them.

A touch, underhand beneath the table is a calculated effort,
A confident attempt – to him the beginning of a game.
An easy boyish touch as close as a whisper.
To her, warms like secret close to the heart.

They leave a little closer than they came,
He slouches, holding the door at a stretch of forced manners
All fingertips clinging in a one legged arabesque.
She looks deeply with those doe eyes that look up and flutter,
drowned a little in a wine dark world.

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