Soft Pink Pool

She sits beside me. Eating.

The sun breaks on
the crown of her head
It spills across her cheekbones.
The neon echoes in her hair.

Black coils, gold light,
a pool of pink
in the hollow of her throat.

Rays of champagne sun
run in rivulets
down bare skin shoulders.

She smiles at the waiter.
He does not see her.

His tray moves like a boat
on the tide of his ambulation
between tables
Glasses tremble in rhythm
and no one looks up.

He watches the drinks.
I watch her.
She does not see me.
She takes a bite.

The fork remembers her fingers.
I remember her fingers.
An hour ago
they were braided in mine
Now they rip a piece of naan.
The sun keeps dripping—

in echoes and rivulets.
The light stays with her.

I stay in the hollow of her throat,
bathing unnoticed
in the soft pink pool of light.

A previous version was published on substack