What did this silhouette seek out and why?
Your fingers press on my shoulders.
The bone tips. Smooth finials, you say,
inviting love or lust to perch.
Your gaze intense -- all lashes
long and down swept, waiting
to skim my flesh,
You are that young poet, stranger
drifting though the mist.
A shadow from her past affair,
I never burned
with leaves or letters freed
from their knotted string.