eroding onyx

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A curving smoke rose from her cigarette, A shade of youth still touched the callous curve of her lip, Slightly parted towards the crowd of the noisy night That seemed far from her thoughts. Her eyes, turned away to a distant point of sparkle Dancing inside her pupils. Despite the chill, she was unmoved. He took a mirrored reflection to her obvious distraction, Extending a puff while slanting in the plastic chair, So hideously paired with the toadstool table. He welcomed a wind that massaged through his hair, Then brought the scratched glass close to him, With prying eyes that shot up behind the half empty liquid, He posed a question: "Tu joue avec l'histoire n'est ce-pas?" And grinned self-assured at her fingers kissing her mouth. Her brow imitated the startled cat, And arched defensively. With eyes, like amber under the darkness, Toyed, unblinking, with a musty answer, Twitched up a smirk and Wrapped a leg around the steel leg Of the seduced table. The remaining dram swerved down his throat, And made him growl a lowly moan at its burning caress, At her scalding coldness or change, Brushing him off with her mane That years ago, wound itself rhythmically around his torso, Beaten with the passionate enraged energy, hovering. In the still of the prudent moment, Some hollow nostalgia sat 'dumpy' And stiflingly futile over his chest. At least speech wasn't necessary to communicate between them, Ever, They were always blessed with mutual telepathy Of painful indication. His hand slammed down flat, Waking a familiar musk that whisked itself, Wriggling an elegant flare to her senses, As she recalled it. Limply, her stub of cigarette fell to the stone patio In slow motion, And the light died instantly, like knowing rescue hopelessly deserted. Two newly polished nails reached up, Stroking the smoothness of the stone; Her own morbid, bitter end captured in its dull black glitter Against the long strands lying tired on her breasts. How long had she forgotten them there, So close to whisper a shadow of affair. He peered up at her when the cool porcelain rested on his arm, Poised and relaxed; a ghost from the past over his present. Yet, he didn't hesitate to grip the last of the memories And gave her the broken emerald of a stale tristess. The pressing ill fog of night forced leaves, Whipping by her eyes, and dressing A transparent moistness creeping from the regrets of time, Filling an insatiable cup. He spoke to her silently, hidden below shading lashes, And they both knew: it's late. She fumbled another from the crushed pack onto her dry lips, Stood up and ran a hand over her skirt, And hunched low to watch the fire dim in each other's eyes, As he offered her a light. An echoed step carried her relentlessly away Into a curving smoke that rose from her cigarette.

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