I'm fascinated
By the blood
Pulsing in your eye.
I wouldn't mind
Knowing if you
See red
All the time.
It's very beautiful
As sick as it sounds.
A friend told I
That you had a split lip
Not just a black eye.
And I have to say
It's some kind of art.
Too bad the bruises are gone
I was actually quite fond
Of them.
But now it's just the scrapes
On your fingers.
My friend likes to draw you
And I like to write blue.
But the red in your eye
Is something new
For my muse.
I was getting bored
Of writing about people
Who typically die.
This won't be common
Me writing about your eye
More of a one time.
It's something I could draw.
But I cannot draw.
So next time
You have a physical flaw.
Come find me
And I'll write about the
Red in your eye.

You remind me
Of quiet rooftops
And loud house parties
And driving too fast
And falling in love at 2 in the morning.
You remind me
Of cracks in the walls
And running
And star gazing
And finding happiness in other people.
You remind me
Of neck kisses
And missing you
And feeling at home
And getting lost.
You remind me
Of the sun never rising
And roses, lots of roses
And protecting each other
And holding hands.
You remind me
Of the person I want to be
Or the person I want to love.
Either works for me.

And the whole time,
I was thinking about
The curls on his head
And when my favorite song
Would start playing.
I thought about
Him and I
Slow dancing
To the song
Tangled in each other
And tears blocking my vision
Because that song
Fills me like the holy spirit.
And the whole time
I pictured him
Looking me dead in the eye
And telling me,
“oUr miNds
ArE spiNninG
liKe A glaSs
Of wIne.”
And I began
Picturing the wine
He poured down his throat
That night.
And I was asking him questions
Like, “where are you going?”
And when he tells me,
“heLl.”
I’ll tell him,
“baby, love,
you’ll be playing
with the greats
in heaven someday.”
But he’ll raise his hands
Telling me to silence
But I’m begging to say
Amen.
Him and I keep swaying
And he’s whispering,
“So fAr it’S alRigHt,
AlriGht, bAby.”
Now, I think
The song is playing
And I look up.
The light
Of his fifth cigarette is fading.
We’re fading.
Then some girls,
Got between us
And I could barely
Make out his face
But I knew
He still looked beautiful
Under the fluorescent lights.
And I stopped breathing
For a moment
Until he started speaking against.
Like he was reading the gospel
And all I could say was
Amen.