Marquise

I see them in a window,
as if i am browsing for entertainment.

they stand by
like air drying soaked paper.

i am intrigued in it all when i see
that the ring on her finger
is silver like her undertone,

clouds and wisps,
burnt polaroid paper,
fingers,
touching,
crawling,
around like a baby born
with eyes after seeing dark.

they touch,
for a measure that can never be counted
when the paper crinkles,
dries,
finishes its process of existing. 

she savors her ring,
once red like her lips in old films,
and worn out
from eyes,
until it remained forever gray.

he said he loved how it aged,
like her roots once healthily dyed and
sprouting like strawberries in spring.

their tender bones
reach out again.

she turns
and her mouth quirks up
like it used to.

they will never forget how days felt.

— Alexa Grospe