Of C..... Poem by A Waltz For Zizi

No one can claim
she was not perfect.
Not the way I saw her.

The way sun paused
on her lips in the
morning as if
to taste her.
The way she drank
her black coffee,
ate a fruit, listen,
speak, stare at you.
The way her dress
danced around her
legs, as she moved
closer, but most
often, farther.

I would have paid tribute
to such a creature
if only her presence
had carried something
less ominous than fear,
like hope that somehow
sometime, somewhere
she'll close her eyes
and let me bathe my lips
in the breath of her mouth.