Fleur de Sel

In my mind, but not in memory
I have felt the clattering of bones on bones
and been whirled about in a mad dance
tossed from hand to hand by faceless strangers
felt the cloying stiffness of lace at my throat and at my breasts

Felt too the simmering heat, the longing
the despair
when you did not come
and who are all these people?
They are not you.

The rush again, the press of silence, of stillness
and incongruous red poinsettias in July
Always the sense of emptiness echoing back from glass and gleam
to mock the girl, too young for this, in her trailing skirts.
Always the sense
of something left undone

And past the ruffling skirts
crisp with years that haven't happened yet
and through the winding, tiny, blanching claustrophobic hallways
into the sharpness of the rain
I never felt so withdrawn, so afraid
Even in my dreams, may I not be free to kiss you?

But for once- for once
I felt a sort of keenness in your smile
I have kissed you like this before
and then you were soft and yielding, and sweet as springtime
Tonight, or is it today?
You were hot
hot and almost violent, hungry,
and left me waking, crying
thirsty for the taste of
salt.