90 words, no more.

Tonight I write to picture you,
arrange words to resemble lips,
margins as braids.
I write skin - set in spectrum soft serif.
Black type on crisp white brings clarity,
I know this now.

Spanish guitar does this to me,
on nights like this - leaves me lingering
in hallucination.

I want to write your eyes looking at me, through me,
I'm out of words -
(this was meant to be a short piece,
90 words, no more)
leaving you blind on the page, unfinished,
and slipping slowly from memory.


Michael Lorne Leard (published in Quills, summer 2005)