I awake again,
with the same stranger,
capturing the night before,
and the premonition that followed,
on dead evergreens,
that I keep under our pillows.
I imagine a club,
where he is my only patron,
spotlight,
smoke for my halo,
watching me whisper The Man I Love,
as he waits,
with his wine,
for me to return to his arms,
the way I always do,
because I’m a simple chanteuse,
who knows some pretty songs,
and knows that she belongs,
with that same stranger,
who finds his way to my club,
my dreams,
and my bed.
Some days,
it’s like I don’t know a thing about him,
except that my waist waits,
impatiently,
and with great angst,
for his fingertips,
and I’ll wait,
until my beauty fades,
my voice vanishes,
and my bed is a Havisham, dust covered disgrace,
for him,
if I must.
