55 Words – No more, no less

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I couldn’t take my eyes off your smile glittering blue, red, yellow, and - like sea, like algae, like oxidized turbines – green.
You promised to call when you could see the field of city lights.
I promised to watch until I couldn’t see you anymore. I didn’t stop even as your turbines failed the plane.

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“Ich will Sie jetzt,” he said, voice thick like his musky cologne filling the motel room. “Ihre Augen sind ebenso tief als die See, und genauso wie blau.” His blond hair, blue eyes, and angular jaw line softened her heart, opened her legs, and led her to the bottom of her cold, cold, watery eyes.

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I waited for the perfect time, right before the train speed through, to ask her what she thought of my new tie that was beige and felt like softened rope.
She came back from the luggage check. The train came back from Georgia. I came back from my hopeful planning having missed my perfect time.

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David looked up at the pitch sky through the open upstairs window. There was only one star to see that wasn’t yet covered in greenish cloud. Papa bustled in, “Schlaffen Sie ein! Gehen Sie schnell!” Someone knocked on the door and yelled something muffled.
Their visit only took a quick minute covering David’s star. 1935.

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The plaster stuck to her red, shiny curls in little flecks like cake batter as she finished scrapping the pasty mix from her hands, the trowel, and pulling the drop-cloth from the floor.
She returned from the sink smiling at her handiwork not noticing the red drop on the wall. Now it needs the paintjob.

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It makes me sick to see you hung over this blonde in the back with her twig-on-a-stick boy. Right in the gut, that’s where it all happens: sex, digestion, hard love, and day-old, lost suppers. I’m trying to be loveabulimic - for my own sake – but this nausea, here, in my gut just won’t go away.

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The classic-robin-blue, vintage convertible screeched down the winter road leaving tire marks, pot holes, and scattered soft shoulders along the way. The air was cold and forced the clouds to shiver, condense, and snow just to hide the tire marks. Then the snowploughs came dropping their salt to creep up the road like returning nausea.

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Constructive criticism, please?