He thought he was the only one
in deaf musician's ears
tangling in his hair
navy with the wind
strewn over itself
however she sipped her tea
slipped into her chamomile 3pm moods
but she was a confection of sort
somehow always caught in his hair
defeated over the eternal question
across the quietness of the hardwood floor pools
still in their life
to give it back, his words like wind to his face
or plant a kiss sweet and deep
below the depth of his lips
controlled yet ruled by some unknown
magical deft trance
slinking from the light of the walls
down their path to her face
and she crossed her legs
and she whispered firm
and she fell into herself
and how she puzzled him
