Monochrome woman and loud vivid man
who speaks above the shudder-grown-sway
to Semper Fi my shorn head. I am not a
warrior, not in this way, but he does not
fathom a woman who would cleave her
femininity just to feel it grow again.
She is made of long hair and wide eyes,
high arced brows, mouth which twists and
pulls, swollen with the promise of eternal
youth; or else inflamed by the burning
memory of some tragic accident; romantic
recovery that has forever skewed the angle of
her smile. Milquetoast and bland grain boasting
shards of color in the hair he wears below his
slackened maw—dangling tokens which
say in their clatter, "Look! I have wandered,
seen, and taken! Perhaps swam in rolling
tides of new culture and drank deep and
been nourished; perhaps skimmed across
the top and carried back just enough to
look the part. Woman hungry and perched
so near I am soaked in the bitter steam of
noodles. She sucks an endless waterfall,
ravenous, and watches me laugh tap
smile frown scroll stretch sucking noodles
I can still smell miles and years away. A
melting man with a slouching, skating
gaze weaving to and fro and to; muffled
laughter tether by a snaking vine of bleached
bone white, palms cupped around that
magic which transcends distance and time.
Stocking knees stand tall, stalwart, sentinel
over a jumble of sprawling limbs jellied with
sleep, splayed across the wide aisle.