Elevator, part I
Secretly, there was a craving for
Marriage.
Not the kind of marriage that drags your
Hearse; the soul-finding kind.
She loved the idea – although it lingered
Solitary in the depths of her cerebral membranes
Unable, and unutterable.
You see, she had too much to expect.
First there was that elevator, of
Moods, or was it reality?
Then there was a cupid’s heart, a
Drawing,
Suspect to creation by fingers wonderful,
Divine almost in their strange nature.
With every breath, the mirror’s painting came to
Life, more profound than ever.
As her breathing turned into anxious, unscrupulous
Exhalations of air, the heart seemed so
Solid – invincible through infinity.
And the silver box kept moving
Upwards, she thought she’d
Hit the sky with a blow in the
Head so severe it would stay
Forever – in a sweet, painful way.
The lift stopped. His floor. The painting of
Panting anxieties faded into the miserable
Image of herself.
She stepped out. Door’s open, he said. Again,
Lying on that couch of dispirited dreams,
Watching.
I’m sorry.
Unhappy, some…times.
Me?! Sometimes. Shock… Paradox?
No. Perhaps inevitable. Don’t
Cry. Hug. Tear. Mascara.
Love.
You.
Elevator, part II
History repeats itself, I’ve heard them say.
Now I can verify it’s true –
It’s not just Bush, Bush Jr., Bush Jr. Jr.,
That gets to fuck up twice. Thrice.
So that elevator. Yes, much frequented.
Up and down, up and down, up and down.
I know what you’re thinking. That’s not it.
At least it wasn’t supposed to be it.
Okay, yes. Maybe.
He panted a heart on the glass – three years ago.
Now I was standing against the door
With his hair in my face
And my ass in his hands
And some whiskey breath slipping down my throat –
It became disconcertingly familiar, over the years. Homely.
It was hot while it lasted, so hot the mirror steamed up again.
Déjà vu.
The lift stopped. His floor.
He carried me to bed but –
