Polished metal reflects very well.
A million bedazzling slivers of light dancing on a surface
Bared, raw-cut by drill bits of diamond
A precious kind of dark onyx you are,
An illumining trill in a deafening silence,
Breaking some incensed blind red in me,
Since even those emergency keys,
Long encased in fireproof cages,
Long, just long for the glass to shatter brittle,
Just waiting for the blazing rescue,
Just dying for the burst of sweltering smoke
The exclamation to their freedom;
Even the fire would have screamed to be let free,
From the pathetic swishing liquids of obscure flammability,
From the useless mechanical click of the lighter,
But there is no looking glass for it, nothing vitreous to be found.
Condemned to mere imagination of what licking wood is like,
Of what roaming in full momentum and tempest feels,
Of spinning and dancing giddy from the sheer taste of the open.
How I lost the eagerness I lavished on you,
Is how you misplaced your keys to this box.
At least, that’s what I make out from the minimal view I have,
Like frogs casting gazes up deep wells,
Seeing a small storm and thinking of your key,
Thinking, in that I know you are trying hard to find them.
It must have been someone else who snatched them from you,
Those other insidious criminals of the outside world
Rendering you defenseless in their wake,
Getting on your two feet, I presume, struggling
And I would have waited for you without words,
Waiting for you to chance by just to look in your eyes,
Beyond torn lashes and weary eyelids, to find
The narrow window to the beaten you,
Squeeze your hand with my smile and remind you
I am ever so hopeful. Keep fighting for the key;
I was enamored by that fantastical passion on your part;
A defunct fairy tale in skewed proportions,
Whereby I am now delusional as to
How great my ode really ought to be.
I was not aware of it; or I did not previously care.
That your hair still silky straight and unscathed;
Your lips still the vivid red of life and wine,
Your hands still smooth and clean,
Petite and unshaken, not crudely conditioned,
Your eyes. Waning, still smiling, still searching,
But not for the keys, I think.
Things are a blur from where I am.
I don’t think it is smoke, though.
You start to laugh as they approach you,
A light nervous kind at first, then slowly,
A refined unrestrained laughter.
You glance everywhere but here.
It isn’t the smoke, it isn’t the glass.
All these years here I could see;
It’s something I haven’t expected.
It’s the water, it’s in my eyes and it burns.