BY GRANT LOMELINO
She was like a Kubric Film,
Master strokes of purposeful small details.
A soft directional stare
Holding a distant beauty
I’ll eat up every second—
popcorn in hand,
Admiration in eye
She placed her hand in my palm
Carefully slipping her fingers in between mine
Just for a moment
Then returning her hand to a fist
To lay dormant atop my open hand.
I lived for the drives we would take.
Winding, twisting, flying
Past street lights,
Framed perfectly in the passenger window
I stared lovingly at the scene
She avoided my sight line,
With pontificated silence and dismissive head nods
As I stumbled into a monologue of my personal interests
She was a troubadour to my passions
I played the fool to it.
Always waiting for the next performance