TinkerX

Miranda stood there naked at her mirror in the morning,
put a finger to the silver and enjoyed the condensation
as it pooled around her knuckles and slid down along her wrist.

She makes me smell her cellar and points out the sounds of squirrel sex.

Miranda took the one bar-stool and put her small, tan, bare feet up,
heels crossed, up on the counter. I watched her brand-new sun-dress
as it slid down, slowly bunching into folds around her waist.

Miranda’s eyes are August high-noon-blue, like birthday frosting.

She sipped an orange pop and asked, "Why do you come here summers?"
Her warm palms pressed the bottle, rolled it slowly back and forth.
She licked one sticky finger, clinked her teeth around the neck.

She is lovely, young and strong and so I tried to tell the truth:

"I come to watch the sunlight blowing through your pale, pink curtains.
To hear the shushing of your skin across the clean bed-linen.
You make me smell the cool-sweet-damp of darkness in your cellar.

I’m here because without you, it’s all dreary, dull and thick."

She grinned and blew a bass-note out across the empty bottle,
put her feet down quickly, her yellow dress a sliding whisper.
She handed me the bottle (now just glass, a whiff of sugar),

turned and said, "Good answer," and went to take a long, cool bath.