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NINE MONTHS AFTER YOU LEAVE ME, MY RED LINGERIE STILL UNWASHED
threadbare, in futility, the broken inches of our lost hours grasping out for a world already driven by. The limp roadkill of red silk lingers and I recall it is said that an invisible red cord connects those destined to meet, how it may tangle, but love combs through, leaving its pieces intact, too strong to break by chance or force. Of love, I know enough to know it only reaches me through exception, needing no more evidence of my untetherings, still unready to see how little there is to wash off, dwelling in the impossibility of these grasps: how the longer one holds near, memory becomes that of holding what was already in the distance, the nights I clutch only to my own arms to become a dream of a different self, sitting in the window, hair down, see how little it has grown, see the distance between the split ends, the loose threads, the absence waiting on the other side the nights I close myself in the burning house in which no drawer could contain my redness |
