A Rococo Lover

The sound of spilt silk

This slithering angel
Does please me as he did upon our meeting
Some centuries ago, or decades, or single
Pleasant years
Though what I would call alone and pleasant
He would call lonely

As he comes down pressed up against the
Wooden bannister of a winding staircase
Face wrenched and body twisted as a Cubist painting
I see that time is no friend of his
Nor solitude
And the palisades between our hearts are still there

The faint lines of a different memory and a different memory
Oft trace these new times
Of him standing in that spot and leaning over the railing
Gripped in a pale conquering hand
Like the head of an enemy
Studying me

And in the other hand
Tipped with a characteristic unsteadiness
Would be the wine that stained his lips
Which curved upward knowingly toward a mind
That still resided in the heady fumes of
Ancient Python

And upon the unnatural angles of the moment
One foot falls before the next
All the way down to heaven
This discontented river of spilt silk
Moving one step and another toward me
Rings clattering to be kissed on his fingers

[A/N] I'm very dissatisfied with how this turned out, and it doesn't correctly portray what I'm trying to say at all, so I will probably edit this at some time in the near future. Thanks for reading, and please vote/comment!