The false darkness beckons
like the last glass
of wine, the note I
shouldn’t send,
the call I know better than to
answer. You wait
behind the door, drapes
drawn, making the room
night-like at noon.
My heels push down into
the plush
carpet, my fist trembles
as I knock, my
knees locked in defense.
Silently you answer
the door, the handle
turns like silk rubbed
between thumb and finger.
Your eyes seek
mine faster than
you should want
to reveal to me.
(Oh, this is about our eyes then?)
You give it all away.
(I don't want it all. Yet.)
This changes everything.
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Writer to the Stars
Zyskandar Jaimot
Mary Ann Farley
thatdamnbob
Grannypower
Lefty McGee
Salon.com
Comments
Yup...
the plush
carpet, my fist trembles
as I knock, my
knees locked in defense."
Oh, yeah.... I am SO feeling that.
Uber snaps.
R
Who knows what kind of poem some loneliness will conjure, eh?
Well done.
"my knees locked in defense"
Woah.
I love your tight, vivid descriptions. They put me right there.
And damn but aren't you the mysterious one!
xoxo
Glad you liked that 'night-like at noon' line. I like it, too.
Thanks for reading.
sometimes... these poems just have to be written.