They duel in clacks, half manhandled, half in love with your fingertips. Red and black, sashay back. Years ago you took her hand, tips oh so red, to your neverending lips. One hip in hand and moved her back, twice-stepping to the curb, into black. Or, you would have.
It's really the idea that lingers, the one that catches her like a hangnail when she crisscrosses these straps over her ankles. She remembers, she stood back to wall with flower handled and twisted in her fingers, spine rubbing and aching on brick. She wanted to hold your gaze, take your hand, but the snapped strap held her mute against the language on the floor. Untouched, untaken. She bites her nails, cursing away memory.
It's really the idea that lingers, the one that catches her like a hangnail when she crisscrosses these straps over her ankles. She remembers, she stood back to wall with flower handled and twisted in her fingers, spine rubbing and aching on brick. She wanted to hold your gaze, take your hand, but the snapped strap held her mute against the language on the floor. Untouched, untaken. She bites her nails, cursing away memory.
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