Fingers snap, hands clap, the melody wanders into the room.
Heart rush, guitar crush, hidden in the corner with whom?
Pecan brushed lover, set against a faint gray sofa, faint gray walls.
From over, near the door, to the middle of the floor, the melody crawls.
With spider web vibrations, on a line to my imagination.
Sitting slightly off position, suspended in the web of the composition.
Black chords spread indiscriminately across the white of the floor.
Gathering under the sill, clumping in the corners, in front of the door.
Tumbling off the roof and over the eaves,
Cascading in sheets onto the ground.
Fingers curling the edges of the leaves,
Sifting through the smoke of the sound.
The curl of her locks tumbling down onto her shoulders as they fall.
My gaze drops, as I watch her turn away and walk down the hall.
From toes to knee to thigh, nursing a little crush on her smile,
The silk of the slit races high, developing an addiction to her style.
Fingers snap, hands clap, peeking through the vines, through the life,
through the dew drops, through the greens of the overhanging gardens up top.
Fingers snap, hands clap, her lips a deeply, delicious dark hue,
Her hips a deeply, delicious curvature,
devotional fervor, capturing her still inside the aperture.
Her hair falling around her coffee colored irises.
I think I got a crush for sure.
Above the constant stream of piano chords,
Coalescing into pools of water as they pour.
Floating on the undercurrent of the drums.
Reclining under the atmosphere of the room,
The condensation of the violins stretch across the ceilin’.
“Hey. Wassup. I just called to see whatchu doin’?”
by malakhai jonezs
(c) Copyright 2016