Slipping through your bejewelled fingers
asking for the face of Melinda, make her like you'd make the swirls in coffee cups
You know I don't drink coffee, thought I'd found out why, something about acids and acids
I swore I still knew
back then when Melinda sat opposite of me, in the coffee
parlor, coffee machines steaming
her face in the reflection of the light was more vivid than my eyes at night
shimmering, shining blue strains across the ceiling as I count the shadows
I know now that she never was
Cannot split her by the seams, cannot tear her notes apart, cannot find her hand
at night, slipping through her bejewelled fingers