she spoke sepia.

she spoke sepia to me
like shallow smoke rings- we breathe
in the stars. nostalgia leads her.
to me. and I can't help but toss pennies
when she sings past tense elvis. and it's a dream
she's content. with just being.

and I'm in a trance. dancing to the faded brown
seeping from the lips she screams oblivion with.
listening to the rust. her eyes
almost as beautiful as the copper hitting the stream.

clicking. there's no flash when the past taunts
and these photographs laugh as she
speaks starburst extract. picasso couldn't
paint a picture more obscure than her present.
so I spit on her poetry trails. lingering
on the dust left from the amber.lacing
on her fingernails.

and she screams auburn at me.
like the leaves falling from the burnt letters
that my pen refuses to ink. majestic- isn't the right word.
but mine are far from the best.


and she speaks soft sorrel.
nights are never dark in her eyes.
I'm burning words and forming letters.

she screams. -photographs always hide the lies