Dancing Leaves

He takes my heart
and doesn't know he has,
with the aperitif
the olive sinks slowly
'Red or white', he asks
I say I have no preference
Champagne would be nicer
but I'm too afraid to say.
I skirt the entrée around my plate
while he dances lettuce leaves;
I hear violins, sweet pungent tunes
and hide my eyes behind
lemon scented candlelight.
When he smiles, I see into his soul
rich creamy camembert
spread in bite size morsels.
It's cold outside, he hands me my coat
does he linger, just a second
or does sea breeze cool an ardour?
'That was nice; I've always liked this place'
I swallow air, and watch sea lights.
Perhaps he feels it too
the subtle strains of beating veins
I don't feel the cold as it shivers up my spine.
I wish this night would never end
I'm afraid that if he takes me home
will I ever find my heart again?

Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 361 times
Written on 2013-03-29 at 16:29

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Ivan R
It is such a joyful reading, what amazing life to live with words read, what a marvellous poet you are.

I love all the food/drink references especially the camembert, a creamy camembert soul sounds delightful.The joy of a tentative relationship in all its innocence beautifully open and laid bare.

Commentally Ill
if dancing leaves, the night is done. and if he takes you home? a nightcap. look right into his eyes, into his bite-size morsels of a soul, and tell him how you feel. if he reciprocates, great. if not? hello, bite-size morsels? eat his soul. yumm. you'll have revenge, and a full belly (needed since you only picked at your food). win-win.

josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
Elle there is fragelity in this that is so innocent and warming...I simply love this piece!


You are a master of the segue! Lovely finesse! xox

Chaucer Whethers The PoetBay support member heart!
On occasion I am fascinated by how the artistic impulse develops
from a deep emotional impulse of something that words will forever
try to express into a poem that expresses that something about as
perfectly as can be. That is my thought on your poem here Elle.