I will always remember the porpoise wind chimes
hanging in the Crepe Myrtle tree outside your bedroom window
Late at night while you slept fitfully,
I would lie awake pretending to smoke a Winston
and listen to the orchestration of the wind
You always sleep with the window open,
even in the heart of summer,
a breeze whipping the sheer curtains around
like a ghost of future promises
some nights you would snore softly
causing me to smile, thinking how angry you would be
if I should tell you
You were never one for decoration
Other than the bed, a night stand, a ceiling fan
that is never turned on, a small set of wooden chester drawers
and an imitation Van Gogh, sitting on the chester drawers, leaning against the wall, the room is empty
It would have been even barer still if I had not given you that picture, framed
Listening to the wind chimes, I rested the side of my head
against a hand supported by an elbow and stared at your profile
The moonlight bathed you in a eerie sort of glow,
highlighting your perfect, unblemished skin
even sans makeup, you draw me as a moth . . .
Even though I am well aware of the fact that your years
are strewn with the carcasses of abandoned lovers
How much longer, I wondered, before . . .
As the wind picked up, the chimes grew louder.
You awoke
Noticing my stare, you smiled and reached out and touched my cheek with a perfect hand
Lifting the sheets to cover your exposed breasts
you fell back to sleep
Alone once again, I listened to the music
wondering if and when it all would end
cursed insecurity