one night can last a lifetime.
an iron memory, forged of passion.
 
she may have arrived like a star
descending, burning slowly
 
   in that low cut dress,
the entrancing fullness of her breasts.
a man could put his lips there
on that trembling flesh,
and never want to remove them
for something as banal as eating…
 
the sheen of her long raven hair,
glistened like diamond chips
imbedded in coal dust,
under a candled chandelier.
 
her face: Irish-cream skin, dew-dropped.
dark eyes, that spoke a gypsy’s promise.
lips that would never kiss mine.
 
   in my dream, we dance slowly.
somewhere far away, the mournful
sound of ‘Mr. Lonely’
…the irony of it chokes me…
 
love is a bug that bites like a tiger,
leaves a blissful wound,
a wildfire fever.
 
 
I will die with that face in my head,
that song in my ear...