The Lost Dance
At night you wanted me to paint shadow on your eyes,
the silver flecks and plum stuck to your bent lashes.
I’d press the cherry gloss into your lips, my fingertips
swirled the peach blush on your cheeks.
In the indigo mist of the dance floor, you wiggled
in your emerald skirt, asked if I thought you were the best
shaker—after too many Sambucas you told me
you were like a green M&M, melting on the blacktop.
Listening to crickets tangle in the jasmine vines
you’d lay against the butterfly bedspread
held your palms to the swell of my hips in blue jeans,
complained about never being a muse.
Years later, I found the picture I drew of you in my old notes.
I made your inky ringlets too long, lips too full.
You grabbed my hand after seeing the sketch,
Write, “Inez looks just like this.”
The letters bled onto the next page.