You sit beneath the neon lights and talk to me,
With dark hair somehow turned to fire,
Your painted arms press hands beneath you,
Or sometimes they lay on your legs —
And your voice, like jazz, weaves intricately,
Plays upon me. It is the magic of life
Growing and winding about limbs and lovely things;
Its notes flow in the windy night,
Its beat opens secret doors and sings to me,
Its melody a deep and Cuban blue.
You sit beneath the neon lights and smile
Till quietly you turn your eyes away.
I remember, you seem to say,–
How slowly and how inevitably love changes,
How closeness withers, stops, and remains…
A midnight snow begins to fall between us,
Its frozen bits scatter crisp on the ground;
I want to reach out and touch your hand,
Take it and warm its whiteness with my cheek.
You do not speak. Your eyes are distant,
Your heart can no longer listen.