I’m sure I’ll cry more tears for you,
but I’m tired
of mascara-laced saltwater
stinging my eyes,
making me cringe
and swipe furiously
at my raw face.
I’m not gonna cry for you
I’m crying for me.
Believe it or not,
this is a proclamation
Confessions of a Peeping Tom
“Crash into Me,” lilting, decadent, spilling
from her cracked window with the sheer
curtains, seeping really, as she-
gathers her auburn hair.
It tumbles and stumbles down her back and twists,
tantalizing, through her fingers,
quick and deft,
and it is only when she turns
that I see her face, her stony face,
but it is only for one instant
and then her features are eclipsed by the afternoon
sun and her hair explodes
in streaming strings:
rays of gold and red, russet red,
and dirt, dirt brown, and all her hair is gleaming
and her body is glowing,
naked in the now-evening sun.