They’re sitting on the top of some fucking French mountain
taking pictures of stars. Well, he’s taking pictures of stars.
She’s sitting up against his little Italian car,
leaning into the cold
metal and wondering how it is
that he hasn’t touched her all week.
Not a palm on the small of her back when they pushed
through an alley crowded with street vendors,
or a tanned and freckled arm pulling
her body closer in the dark. Falling asleep
last night, she thought he stretched a hand out for her
to hold and nudged her own, clenched tight
around a hotel blanket, closer.
But he rolled back over,
away from her, taking his hand
On the way up the rough and winding
mountain roads, one hand brushed
against her leg as he shifted
gears, but then moved away
too quickly to be anything
So now they’re on top of this mountain.
He’s taking pictures of stars. She’s leaning
up against the car, staring
at the moon and trying to remember
how it feels to have another’s warmth beside her,
against the cold.
Well, I’m making a concerted effort to write more. One of the things I love with poetry is that you can take one idea or image and spin it out farther in your head and on the page. I mean, I guess you can do that with fiction, too, but that is a lot more difficult for me. And, since I am definitely more of a poet than a fiction writer, I would much rather write poetry anyway.
Sitting up near Formicola looking at stars were one of the most peaceful, thought-filled moments I’ve had in a long time.