She places her palms
on the flush of my cheeks,
rubs ice-cold
small tight circles.
I warm her
faster than she cools,
she freezes
before I burn.
Her fever pitch
is a little flat,
her grace note
sounds too sharp.
She’s minor keys,
exotic
open tunings,
but I hardly think
she’s a mystic.
© Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 