My fingers flew across the keys as the sun settled lower in the sky,
staining the ivory scarlet, scattering shadows across the floor.
You were curled up in your armchair, hands in your hair, crossed legs,
and you said maybe you'll write a song like that for me one day.
I couldn't hear you, couldn't bear to answer, to tear myself away
from the ever-quickening arpeggios and scent of woodsmoke in the air.

You pulled me closer, shivering together against the evening air.
Cold lips; we stood on the corner, oblivious, watching the sky.
Wondering what it would be like if the sparrows flew away
forever, leaving us in a silent world with worn walls and floors.
Heavy stormclouds crept in, pushing out the final hints of day.
You said I was beautiful with raindrops woven through my hair and trickling down my legs.

I wore my hair like a cloak that autumn, shoulders rigid, tired legs.
Winter beat against our dirty windows and I couldn't bear the bite of the air
on my lips. I would peek out, searching for warmth but the days
were long and you were distant and I was lost without my sky.
The piano gathered dust and I sat sprawled across the dusty floor,
fingering chords on your guitar to try to chase the silence away.

We woke to icicles on the windowsill and you flinched and shrunk away
from my touch as I leaned in to your chest. Lay my head on your legs
but you pushed me away and the boards creaked as you walked across the floor
and out of my heart until I heard music, chords hanging in the air.
I crept out and sat on the bench beside you and looked up out of the sky
light as the snowdrifts turned silvery pink. I said, it's a new day.

You turned to me and smiled. We were wary of each other that day,
restless, anxious, ready to leave this city and wake up far away
from home. We walked through Central Park and I thought I saw the sky
part, just for a moment and I wanted to stop but you said your legs
were sore and you wanted to go home. Savouring the taste of winter air
I kept my eyes down until icy concrete turned to the lobby's marble floor.

The tree outside our window had budded that morning. I sat on the floor
at your feet; we drank a bottle of wine and tried to remember a day
that was more than grey as we watched the fog settle, filling the air.
It was one of those spring storms that stains the pavement black. Away!
We settled for the windows open and us on the couch, tangled legs
and when we were awake again the sun hung low and copper in the sky.

The last notes drifted in the air and the sunset turned the floor
a brilliant scarlet, though the sky was India ink, as the day
finally slipped away, the last rays curling around the piano legs.

06/24/2008

Author's Note: Not a particularly successful attempt, but an attempt at a sestina nonetheless. The form fascinates but always manages to trip me up.

Posted on 06/24/2008
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