Orange peel and smoke

Desire begins quietly:

like the smell of oranges after rain,
like a window left open in winter,
like something nameless pacing just outside the light.

Desire is:

a match struck under the tongue,
a glass of wine left breathing in the dark,
a hand hovering over a bruise,

the slow untying of gloves,
a wolf circling the same patch of snow,
perfume trapped inside an old coat,

a locked room with music behind it,
a train heard at midnight from miles away,
salt drying on bitten lips,

smoke curling from an unread letter,
the moon lowering itself into black water,
a knife polished until it reflects your face,

the moment before thunder admits itself,
the ache in a violin string before the bow,
a hunger elegant enough to call itself devotion.

And afterward—

the room still breathing around you,
candles collapsed into their own wax,
a single glove abandoned on the floor,
the window fogged with vanished mouths,
your name tasting different in your own mouth,
like something stolen gently from the dark.

Photo credits: Still life orange by Elena Katsyura, Pinterest

Bjorn hosts at dVerse where we are invited to write list poetry. Come join us! 🍵

Posted for Meeting the Bar: Unlock with Lists @dVerse Pub