Crimson Ties

Days wet whipped and weary,
just waiting, hands wringing
for that phone call that never comes;
listening
rain thrumming,
battering its grief on single glazed windows.

Remember hours spent
in this same room
contorting under tye-dye throws
meant for beds and sofas,
clothes strewn, naked gratification,
exploration of skin and fold,
awakening on levels never achieved before
or since.

Sun breaks through the clouds
lighting the room.
Haunting smell of you
lingers in these relics,
grown cold and dusty,
dissipating in the ether.

You found me again then.

That phone never rang.

There is a fine line between loving with a passion and insanity. Through poetry maybe we can learn to love insanely ;)

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4 responses to “Crimson Ties

  1. I have loved insanely and because of it, I love this poem!

    ‘Contorting under tye-dye throws’ will stay with me… you have a wonderful way of touching the edge of memories.

    Thanks for writing this :-)

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