She found him in a thousand pieces
Beneath the dim marquee:
It was a William Powell retrospective,
But she had come to see Myrna Loy.
It was his eyes which caught her:
Opalescent beneath the neon and moonlight.
It wasn't her intent to piece him back together,
Not from a thousand weary bits
On a dirty sidewalk
At one-thirty in the morning.
Still, she couldn't leave his eyes like that,
Glistening with grief
Next to a Skittles wrapper
And an oil stained popcorn box.
"I'll just dry them a bit,"
She assured herself,
"That's all."
She pieced together just a bit more:
The slope of his nose, a jaw line;
It was intermission,
She had time.
She got to his lips,
Full with passion unspent,
Shifting at her touch
Ever so slightly upwards.
She felt compelled then
To finish the rest.