In his dreams, she dances
in and out of shadow and luminescence.
Her liquescent movements are reminiscent
of a languid flame that once danced for the rose candle,
which now sits cold, useless—
since late October.
He breathes deeply scents of
sandalwood and rose, the essence of her hair.
He tastes the redolence of gin and tonic,
and the tang of menthol ciggies cleaving to her tongue—
senses living, ever
He hears her breath, rhythmic
against a backdrop of fall rain. Soft sputters
splatter gently upon the cold windowpane—
the melody of October unjust, justified.
Song of amour, ever
He awakes in the night.
She is there in the black, low-slung and callous—
phantom in the guise of a satellite,
casting her hateful white light through the thin window shade,
ever mocking, ever
© 2019 Kindra M. Austin
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