Another Saturday Evening.

You could build cities on her collarbones. they stood out like elegant reminders that there was strength under her delicate skin. You offered to crush your own hands if you could bathe yourself in the pools of sweat which sometimes gathered there.
Rhythm was born in her hips. What her lips refused to say her hips screamed out into the stale night, reviving the dead and killing grandmothers with the aftershocks of a million swaying particles of muscle and bone.
She whispered lies that fell like truths upon the ground at her feet. You stumbled over yourself to gather them up, but then you saw her ankles. they were perfect and you thought ankles should become the new currency--more valuable than gold, but she would be the only one with any real wealth. and you offered to burn down her house and change the meaning of time if she would let you possess just one of her tears. if she would tell you just one agonizing truth about herself if she would only reveal some weakness upon which you could sieze if you could only own some bit of her...but she laughs and with her eyes that stab your heart eighteen times between every perfect blink she tells you she doesn't exist in the present and never has. she'll always be a memory or a prophecy but she can't offer you any reality because you've already dismissed such a posssibility with your worship of her . As she hands you your cigarettes and change, her green and yellow uniform hanging off her slender frame like a conspicuous profanity, you realize you fall in love too easily.