She wore that dress, wore it well.
It warmed her breasts, ribs, and shoulder blades,
held her soft. She bunched it up to her small nose,
while nestled in my lap. The dark didn’t touch us,
not then, so we took a little of its bright, cupped
between clammy hands, among the Klieg lights,
to a hotel room with champagne on ice. My lips
broke open. My blood feather twisted. She made
delicate passes over skin lightly kissed. She pressed
part of a promise down, lower, tucked into the echo
of my chest. It could have been easily lost in the
bed sheets, but wasn’t. I hold it now. I hold it
as I write and remember that dress: how she
wore it, how she took it off. I bunched it
to my face, and breathed in all that promise.