pinot noir and paramours pt. 2 (don't speak, mnemosyne)

her story, like life, is wrought with disclaimers,and her breath a train she just can't catch.

she rambles on, desperate, like a candle 
that doesn't know how to stop itself from burning

but the truth is, she just can't bear to live 
another holiday without a destination.

"her sweater and her eyes were blue and her
hair like buttercups spraying out the mouths of doves..."

she incompletes herself
with sad songs and recycled insults

swaying to the acoustic snowflakes

and drifting on the weary winds

of might-have-been.

she'd do anything to sing her that one song,
but she'd forget the words and have to hum
that unknown verse, in tune, but off-key

like her socks that never match.
and when she's done, she'd watch the lines

around those pale cerulean eyes
form rivers when she cries, making her feel

at once 40lbs too heavy and light as a feather,

but still 20 years too young.

oh, the stories she holds...

she's got her reasons for feeling so old
her body craves those warmer days,
but it's not only the seasons that change 
when she wants them to stay.
her heart aches while her bones break
into song, and she knows: her breath
will turn silver when your hair does.
she'd spend forty-four lifetimes with her head
thrown back, trying to drink the sea
so you won't have to anymore. but for now,
it's two hours and ten drinks past midnight
and her knees are bent like the pages of her favorite memoir,
the one whose title and ending she can't recall-
can't even remember reading the damned thing-
but while saudade and imagination
weave through her soul and
flesh out her memories,
she'll be holding (                   )
your place.