an ode to mystery

The girls were full of you.

They wore you on their cheeks
like rouge, dotted on the inside
of their tights, at the top of their
thighs, right on the apple of
their bones, to keep you close
enough to count.

They spent too long learning
the way that you taste
to be able to watch you
speak to someone else the
way you used to speak
to them.

Painted in your touch, their
fingertips left lines of shivers
in their wake; the stars of
wet dreams and moans when
their dreamers couldn't sleep.
They let you linger long
enough to count.

Your words hit them like
breaking the sound barrier
even after all this time.
Even after all this time
you took their cigarette
scented breaths away.

They know they'll find you
stuck on that old black dress
that doesn't impress like it
did. They'll find you in the
corner of that dark room,
smelling like whiskey just
enough to count.

Windows open in the
dead of winter, they let their
smoke curl out to signal
-- a desert island in the middle
of the desert city --
for your return.

They've lost your charm,
the perfume that
people once wondered about
when they left in a whirlwind
of exodus.

To get you back.

They'll drain their wine
alone, sitting alone in the bed
they share with someone who
fell in love with you on their
cheeks. Fell in love with you
enough to count.

When your lipstick fades
and the morning reveals
humanity under the selling of
the single night's soul, they'll
wonder if you wouldn't mind
taking a little longer next time
to disappear in the daylight.
Leave them just enough time
to escape with you on their trail.
Leave them just
enough time to count.