As one
we all turn
to watch nearby,
but he,
sitting behind you
and in love,
at the exposed skin
above your summer dress.
A lock of your hair,
draws a line
your bare neck
like droplets of water,
the pale curve
of your shoulder.
He longs
to run
his tongue
your shoulder
blades’ wings;
to drink you in
with sharp
quick kisses,
tracing back
along the line
of your neck.
Someone laughs
and we all turn
back as before
into ourselves.
He sits in silence:
listening, discomfited,
to the flow
of conversation;
the others;
only you.
Oh, Prince! You are such a fool:
so few simple words,
so few explanations,
without any occasion to occur,
could break this impasse.
(June 12-14, 2013)

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