Luck of the Irish

Falling Slowly

Eyes that know me

And I can't go back...

Dublin's city streets speak to me.  The girl with the hoola-hoop of fire breathes out your name with icy precision.  My neck prickles and the urge to take your hand invades my sweaty palm.  Swift as your love, the prickling disappears.  I can feel the stubble of your cheek under my tentative fingertips, so harsh and inviting.  Without pre-emption, I slap you.  My palm, still sweaty, makes contact with your cheekbone.  There is a salty sense of satisfaction in the contact, deliberate and clear, like a high note sung in perfect pitch.  My jaw tightens at the sight of your tears.  Then I realize: you do not cry for me.  It is a physical response to the sting, that is all.  I could fill two dozen dixie cups to the brim with tears cried in your name, but your own cup reeks with arid indifference.  No.  You cry no tears for me.