L.A. Decker (redskydecline) wrote in __amatory_verse,
L.A. Decker
redskydecline
__amatory_verse

stamped // untitled poem


She never sees him
unmoving.

He crosses his legs,
left ankle resting on right knee.
For half a minute
his foot is a twitching,
vibrating animal
bound by brown suede and
black laces,
suspended
two and a half feet above the
gray and black
scuffed tile floor.

She watches the way he moves
his body, her eyes slow,
recording the details.

His right foot
presses against the inner side
of his left.
His left knee leans outward.
A pen passes his thin lips
and his eye teeth dent a
band around the white plastic
as he rolls the pen
back and forth
between his fingers.
The pen falls to his lap, forgotten
as he pistons his arms backward,
stretching hard enough that
the bones pop and click.

She sits unmoving,
observing quietly.

He moves again,
his fingers slipping into his mouth,
first the index
and then the middle.
His teeth grate, pull, and peel
away his skin until
bright blood spills
off the raw pink sides of
his fingers.
His tongue moves swiftly,
catching his life and
slowing its exit.

She moves at last,
her pen easing across
a blank page
to draw this man with words.

Unpublished work © 2005, L.A. Decker
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