Thursday, December 31, 2015

Poem Series: A Chair

A Chair

Liz Fink-Davenport

I'm sitting. In a chair. In a room. That's crowded. I hate crowded rooms. I'm making ridiculous small talk with the man across from me with lips that curl into eights. I'm sweating. Someone is smoking and the room is washed in waves of grey and yellow. My wine is warm. I am going to go. It's late. "I'm going to go. Pleasant talking with you." I start to stand. And then. You. Stop the world. Damn. You. Across a room. Eyes that meet. It's you. And I'm up. Walking towards you and my hand slides easy to your jaw. Fingertips trace. I look up and my gaze is caught in you. In depths. My mouth tips high and receives yours. An electric jolt to start a heart. My fingers and toes aflame. Twenty points to light the night. And your hand is in my hair. The room rolls away. It's just your heart beating directly on mine. How is that possible? Anatomically? You in me. My heart strikes it's own new rhythm and it's a musical.

What makes this happen? Our hearts to start beating? And what makes them stop. Because they do. Stop. They fucking stop. They screech to a halt. They dump you from the buggy. They tip over into the sea.

But we are in a kiss. That is a start to a heart. It's a beginning. That sparks life. And my fingers are entwined in hair and my body is pressed to his and I am lost. Lost at sea. Tipped over in a different way. But then the room pulls back. And it's not real. He is still across the room and I am...I am...still in my chair. With my warm wine and a sweat laced across my chest. And it never happened. You never happened. You were bones long not broken. You were unforgotten paths. You were heartache before you began.

And I'm in a chair. In a room. And I just loved and lost in the half tick of a heart. I'm going to go. It's late.

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