“Why don’t you write me something beautiful,”
She breathed, her question hot across my neck,
Her fingers tracing something suitable
Along my chest, like signing for a check.
The hair that framed her face played over mine
As she explained “like, something from a movie:
Moonlight reflected on a glass of wine
As starlight lovers dine in secrecy,
“Or maybe flowers from a bought bouquet
Still fresh, despite the dusty sill beneath;
Write something beautiful and far away
For me,” she said, and sighed herself to sleep.
I only saw the streetlight through the blinds,
On her, and writing wasn’t on my mind.
~Michael Danger Caskey