Glass-Maker
Topic: Poetry

This forgiving February afternoon,
in a lazy napping roll,
my nose chanced upon the pillow
that had cradled your head
just a few hours before.
Instinctively I breathed you in,
not aftershave but you,
the dirt of your day still on you,
a week's worth of worry
telling in the whispery scent
of sour beer.

Dreaming your hands on my downy skin,
my nose grazed pillow lint and I smelled
the oil from your eternally capped hair,
a concentration of you stewing underneath
your Kangol, now captive on my pillow,
reminding me of how my body
turns to glass wherever your lips
touch me.

I could slide back into dream
or purl into consciousness--
my fingers walking their way
over your ghost trails, leaving
rivers of shivers in their wake--
either way, a hint of you,
like the scent of you,
will remain.

The pillow slips from me as I
slide into a dream, half-memory,
half-desire of your glass-maker hands
molding me beneath the heat of your lips
until I am all decanter, a vessel for
the sticky sweetness we have made.