I stare up at the ceiling fan
spinning its slow, uneven circles
in the graylit room.
I feel its breath pass over me,
gentle,
sparking memories of other times,
living faces...a face.

My gaze slides to the chair
by the cluttered desk,
my black bra hanging over its back
as if tossed there in passion;
but as I lie here
in my too-small, lonely bed,
I know the lazy reality.

The fan's rhythm sets the curtains to swaying,
pale blue against the white-washed walls
and I think of you,
as you were,
baby-blues glinting
from sun-bleached flesh;
I think of Frank Sinatra,
and wonder, belatedly, if you can sing.

My mind skips back
to those summer words I wrote you,
unknowing,
and two months too late
for anything but a scrapbook,
and part of me hopes
that they, at least, you kept,
yellowing somewhere in your attic.

08/04/2004

Author's Note: Topic from Joe Chiles. As usual, with his topics, I was already in bed when this one started forming. *shakes fist* I lose more sleep to your topics, Joe.... Feedback welcome, as always.

Posted on 08/05/2004
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