hourglass.

Image: Suzannah Baron

She peels dress off skin
like silken orange blossoms
falling off dining tables into wine glasses
half full of herself, and lipstick tattoos.

Plastered on the rim
like a tapestry of Maybelline kisses,
they pout. In the open veranda,
shadows pirouette on polished terrazzo
like dainty silhouettes on floating mirrors.

She is half-naked, I am half tipsy.
I peer through the ripples
circling the banks of a white swan lake.

She said the moon might drop on the eaves tonight,
So let’s play again before her nosy tide’ll rise.
You hold on tight, I’ll spin the bottle.
Love me at the point of no return.
We’re only half-drunk, the hourglass is half empty.