A red sky frames
the silhouette of your blond curls.
You are colorless,
but light gets in the way
and I need nothing
but the vibration
of your energy around me.
As the red fades to black haze
and then blue night,
your shadow moves toward mine,
your dry, warm index finger
singes a path across my shoulder,
causing the useless string to drop,
to bare what you deserve,
what you have worked for,
I am the prize for a hard day’s work,
for keeping your hands to yourself,
for shutting out the brunette who brought in
more than her car for a work up.
I am the trophy given in the winners’ circle.
And I revel in shining for you.
Like an obsessed art collector,
I polish and shine your possession.
I am the centerpiece of the meal,
the dessert after,
the aged cognac before bed,
the fine Cuban between your fingers.
And I beg to be gazed upon,
licked from the fork,
sucked in and consumed.
I am the red sky that frames your perfect curls.
My color takes away the need to hide.
Because the darkness shades your gaze,
and forces your hands to become your eyes.
Look at me
as long as you can.
No one knows what we become at night.