To Kiss Like a Lady

Through the normally abnormal evening hours, the black cat calls woke me up from the bad luck dancing across my window sill. There was nothing left in the rest of the room that could hold up the foundation from above, so I watched as the floor sank slowly into another millennium's masterpiece. She cooed like a dove when she sang me her lullabies as she prodded me to stay awake. Stillness was surrounded by a rapid fire ballet class like the eye of the storm in Manhattan. She held me close in the afternoon breeze and taught me to kiss like a lady. The scent of her perfume was perpetually too strong, perpetually too weak, perpetually too exhausting to fathom rightfully. Yellow roses bloomed in her footsteps and she danced like a sultry queen upon her mushroom throne. I do not know to this day if she ever saw my face, because she looked at me with eyes too red and pupils too small as she marked the way my visage became a flame in the bonfire on the Fourth of July. It was then that she would break into the National Anthem alternately edited to praise the rise of the communist manifesto in Antartica's democratic lands. The wonder bread stuffing was a little too fatty for the rest of the world to enjoy, but when the nighttime met daytime and slowly shook hands to greet one another, I hit my spoon to the bottom of the bowl and laughed at the colors she painted in the wind. My doorway was darkened only once a day by the sound of yesterday's retreat; otherwise, I slept in and had vivid lucid dreams that somebody cared. I try very hard to not wake up.