She sat on the beach sand like a soft painting, that long California blonde hair blowing gently in warm summer wind.
Maybe he misses her when she’s out of town or just in the other room, tries to listen to Iggy Pop or have a true vision of Picasso with a cold beer, but it doesn’t work because he has gone somewhere impossible with her, can’t drink enough to blur the image of her in that red bikini with that glass of red wine.
Or the fine shimmer of darkness in her chocolate eyes.
They drank in an alley once, in Los Angeles, as alley cats strolled fences, hanging onto sanity, broke, young, on the run and always cool west coast jazz, Chet Baker, Gerry Mulligan, Herb Alpert, a soundtrack, a stillness…
Facing each other and toughing out the metamorphosis of evolving. Would she get upset if I ripped a butterfly in half or squeezed a kitten until it exploded?
But sometimes we don’t know our own strength when touching something delicate and beautiful until we destroy it.