Mend

I've thought these thoughts a thousand times
In manic corners wrapped in soft sleepless sheets.
Quiet stories I'll never let you hear.
My hands jammed firmly in blue-jean pockets,
I imagine fingers interlocked.
Yours. And hers.
(always, hers)
I think here, sitting in pink, of us.
Of what you look like through Chardonnay glass eyes.
Your far-too-loose arms around my silver shoulders
Bodies scorching.
The weather man says it'll rain tomorrow -
Blood-red veils of monsoon weather.
Oh please -
Won't you ask me out to play?