Tuesday, January 11, 2005Int.The Opera. Night.He stroked my hair, playful fingers pulling As though intensity caught him unaware And so I met him at intermission, our lips Partial moons caught in an eclipse A celestial wardrobe of possibilities Folded out the sky, a map of telling The word Caliente written on the marquee In Victorian scroll,... Sign in to see full entry.posted by MiaElla at 10:32 AM Comments (5) (permalink) |