She walks by, attitude cocked and loaded
emanating this kinetic vibe that tells you
she’s cold and hungry and invincible
and lonely. You want to pierce her cool
with visions; tragic and hip--want her
to take you across oceans, over mountains,
far beyond the indifference of 30,000 feet
until you find yourselves in some foreign
land where nothing is true and everything
is permitted. You take her hand, walk down
a cobblestone street and make up dialogue
for overheard conversations because
you don’t really understand the language.
She points to a couple, says she’s leaving him,
then kisses you quickly on the cheek;
an exclamation point, no room for debate.
You remember a summer at Redondo Beach
as if it were a black and white movie in slow
-motion: white waves, the sweet smell of weed,
the flat tang of lukewarm beer and a dark haired
girl who dreamt of breaking horses. You’re too
goddamn tired, too sober and still hoping to land
on your feet, as her hand slips from yours
you wish for a world without gravity.