The dress she wore, wore her well:
warm to breasts, ribs, and shoulders,
held soft, bunched up to her small nose.
The dark didn’t touch us, not then, so
we took a little of its bright promise with
us, cupped between our hands, amongst
the Klieg lights, to a hotel room with
champagne on ice. My lips broke open,
to hurt her the harder, my little blood feather,
before our night was done. She made delicate
passes over skin lightly kissed. She pressed part
of that promise down, lower, into the echo of my
chest. It could have easily been lost in the
bed sheets, but wasn’t. I hold it now.