You go from a corner
to another, as my eyes watch
you fill glasses, take tips,
laugh with a familiar
customer.
What would your red
hair smell like? A rainy morning?
Vanilla, maybe. Or lavender,
or a glass of red wine
after a long,
long day.
You throw your hair
back away from your collarbone.
Your collarbone was made
of opals. Skin, of mulberry silk.
There's a tattoo on your neck,
it's a Russian phrase that
I can't clearly see. I might love
you if you speak Russian.
I might love you if you don't.
I kissed you in my head
five times in one hour. You
gave me a "here's your
drink" smile. We looked twice
in the same direction.
You go from
a table to another, as my heart
tirelessly follows your
voice, jostling through tens
of other voices.
I'm anxious about how much
it will hurt when your
shift is over.
