Nadeshiko

“Bone” was not a hideous enough word-

he went with “calcium staff”, and I sighed.

The truth was that I craved the sight 

of bones shoving against
the thin film of skin

more than he relished versifying
the blue-black cloak of pretend misery

that warmed

his slippery self. He stayed squat within a shell

with a bleak pattern. A textile

not transcending the skin

of a damp pavement.

He carried himself like a glitch.

A patch of confident disproportion

he was eager and therefore unaccountable.

He always took his meals alone.

(I sit before pianos

not dining tables.)

 *

Symphony” was too bland for him-

he reworked it into “a superimposed array of aural fragrances”

and I tapped my finger on my thigh.

 He attempted to write me down.

Throngs and throngs of thick description

saturating the image

of the thin of my wrist and wit,

filling in the hollows.

The lather of his voice

informing his memory of mine,

retelling its echo,

summarizing my song.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.