by Steven J. Serafiani

I want to age with you.            
      in middle of fifth    felt
absurd siamese again.felt something
coursing in arterial split. I can
imagine you, wearing that floral
dress in formal dining your neck
doing that slight twist as you
coyly smirk in a room of hushed
silverware. my five welcome, wrong word,
surrender to all of you. nape draped in some
orange blossom coffee accord your
lips blushing amongst notes dizzied
up and warm.  leaves ensconced in
truffle;  we don’t know which
fork to use and this will be a memory we
share six and a half years from
now. I cannot stand to look away from
your bobbed brunette with strand grazing
cheek or your filaments those tranquil
ovals; it is eight-burst.then

I notice I’m not there, or, really
none of this is.  spirits, please do not abbreviate this thought whoever she was, I
want her