The air between us blushes,
fills with sticky hope that clings,
greedy like spilled wine
at communion—
blood shed for our sins,
proof of a guilt created
before we could even sip.
Fluorescence reflects in your eyes,
they hover,
lock,
stubbornly reflect. No window flies open
into this thing called soul,
only two irises,
hard fluorescence,
the sticky glimmer of hope, sin,
reflected.
The reflection of a wine glass,
spilling over.
Stains that wash out of skin but not
soul, no matter how a child
slams her hands together,
scrubs them with words.
The wine was smooth on our tongues,
blurring the lines between our souls,
salvation—
then the goblet crashed decisively
at our naked feet.
No comments:
Post a Comment