An Ode to her Freckles I wrote on a Napkin

To the girl that sat five tables and three unhappy couples away last monday morning

The girl wears a spinach green hat, tilted at an angle
A handbook of the avant-garde sits in my palms, opened, unread
To its left, a cup of coffee, steam billowing and froth foaming
Like syllables and adjectives I warble in my mouth like wine

The chapters lie sideways, awaiting a distracted gaze to return
Which had so quickly flitted away, that the pages and pictures slowly realized
They had been nothing more than an infatuation, as the napkin masks
Some random portrait’s abstract lips, and words are scribbled
The impressions of letters depressed into the ink

The dotted constellations that pepper her cheeks
The children of Destiny, whose laughter lights the lampposts in the sky
Who scribbled the paradoxes of existence in the drunkenness of their youths
Have hid their secret intitials beneath her eyes

Her freckles shape and bend at the ripples of her cheeks,
And they grin as she smiles,
O, that subtle curvature of her lips, that steers planets and drowns souls
In the vaccum of space, where the senses are muted, everything smells like her