Midnight.

She bit her lip,

a blushing rose

with petal soft cracks

and tried to count

‘I love you’s on her fingers,

a confused abacus

squeaky with rust.

When ‘two’ ‘three’ and ‘four’

should have been falling

from her teeth and tongue

she found her fingers in her hair,

forest fire wild

tangled with wind beaten knots,

her secrets

tucked in small envelopes

pressed and sealed

labelled with care,

‘Do not open, for fear –

of emerald tint glasses,

palms up a thigh and

self-taught riddles.’

Each one had a home

delicately left in a room

or cupboard – the many

which adorned her body;

the worn enamel behind her front teeth

the space between her hands

the small of her back

and behind midnight retinas

burning brightly with loss.

The best kept secrets

were safe with her

as she pulled at her skin

and tried to count

‘I love you’s on her fingers,

losing count with every man

who walked through the door.

 

 

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11 thoughts on “Midnight.

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