Your Porcelain Skin
David Sundby
Under the big maple with brown and green leaves
you smiled coyly, your eyes downcast,
shy or nervous, I couldn't tell.
Dark curly hair shaded your face
in the already dim light of evening.
The weak gleam of old halogen bulbs
and a weaker moon illuminated
your porcelain skin
like white cloth in black light.
On the brown and green plaid couch
we sat
with a modest space, a safe space,
enough space to be noncommittal.
Again, you smiled coyly, your eyes downcast.
You laughed
abrupt breathy giggles
that surprised even you.
In the yellow glow of artificial light
your porcelain skin
was a ruddy pink, warm in that moment
you accidentally brushed
your fingers on my hand.
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