Star light shines down as Dawn breaks open like a pistachio shell. I went to hell and back for her, but heaven is her wide open arms. I guess I wanted a girlfriend, her voice on the telephone, husky and low, circling around me, capable of hurting or healing me. I guess to me a girlfriend is the paperback poems of Sylvia Plath. When I brush the dark hair from her eyes, be at the end of her New York smile. She makes a living from rhe stage, I make a living from words written on a page. Extrovert and introvert. I can’t hide behind the books anymore and she can’t hide behind her looks. It’s the fall of Rome, the ashes of Pompei, falling in love wirh her. When we kiss her tongue feels like an oyster in my mouth, and I’m extracting the grittiness of the girl in my teeth, it’s the preciousness of a pearl