A Visit From the Muse, or The Stranger

Her hands were rough,
hands that were used to work,
busy hands
brushing against mine
as she told me stories,
tales of artists
living, breathing, dying,
and lives led after that.
Her voice was soft,
leaving a trail of feathery husks
blowing in the wind,
lips full against my cheek,
her eyes bright as stars
in the dark of the evening
before us
and after us.
And then
she was gone.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s