Burning

Your cup is here here beside my desk here beside my notebook your cup is here. Night silent and heavy comes over the spread of cold glass night sits down and the dark hem of her pleated skirt falls over the gaze of the closed frames over the gaze of the cold empty volumes Your cup brimming with the scent of your breath is here here: in the feverish ring of my hand. I stand my burning lips on the lip of the cup ... Night tugs up - behind the glass - her bruised heels and the rustle of a black skirt is lost in the cry of two pulses two fast, throbbing pulses here ...