she says, and just maybe
Clouds add a shadow, thunder punctuates
over a window you never opened
now only you in this room and a flower
on the ground, hers from a tree on the
wrong side of pelagic, still blooming, an island.
Bare feet shuffle sand behind a door, she
quiets her breath, wind circling soft clays
just outside the door. You
clear your throat, feel the barometric pressure
dive, a trickle of sweat meeting the sensation that she
is closer than her breath, nearer than
across the room. A gust of memory
begins a tango, spins her, down the long hall.
No you say. No questions.
your shoes, this
dust, your restless wind-
TaraLinda c.p. 2014