Newton's Cradle

The truth wears stiletto heels. With faded denims. And loose blouses that show off her cleavage. As it ripples in her bra. Churns under her skin coaxing the undertow.

It tastes so different depending upon with whom you drink it. The bourbon in their grin challenging your stamina. The brandy in their press sweetening your blood. Why go over the mountain when you can just dig right through it. Exchange those pumps for cleats. Pull deep. Break the bat on that very first pitch.

I know how to undo the knot, but I choose to leave it there. Byproducts. Afterwards seek their origin.

Auburn dreams to waking up. In channels. Changing them. Button by button.

Movie references your only pardon when you're asked to remember something real.

You chew hard on the pages of your epic. Numbered pages for to fill in. But they've left you no crayons.

Metal heels resonate as she strides. Denim coughs against the rhythm of her thighs.

You strapped her to a wheeled chair and convinced her she was unable. But the second you turned your back she was running again. In piercing stilettos. In chafing denim. In every way there is to run.

Away.

And still want to go back again.