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frances Nov 13
The carpet ran
through the hallway and
up the stairs.
There was so much in it,
I remember thinking;
that if the person who had made it
had tried to squeeze another shape inside
it would burst.
It contained all of the colours that I knew how to name
and it swirled
like a kaleidoscope
as we did handstands in the hall.
There was that trick
you showed us how
if you  didn't make a sound and
stood right there on the bottom step,
faces would rise to the surface
and wink or grin.
Like the fat fish in your pond outside
where we dropped
bread like wishing-coins.
And they moved so much
the water was boiling.
Sometimes the circles were stepping stones and
we would jump
from blue to green
so not to burn our feet on all that red.
But one day you weren't there anymore,
and two men came and tore it up
from the floor and laughed
about somewhere called the seventies.
And as I watched through a film of tears
I couldn't understand why
they didn't burn their hands on all that red.
  May 2014 frances
Sour
Love is seeing you in the bottom of my coffee,
It's feeling a cigarette burn into my skin,
It's hearing your voice cracking in the branches of my trees,
It's watching the moon turn red in April and not being able to focus on the stars anymore,
It's staring into my drawers, feeling my fingernails scratching the wood looking for change,
Its licking a lit match,
And finding a golden dollar in your backyard under the sandbox,
It's getting in a car crash at 60 mph on a congested highway and never being able to drive again without thinking about hitting a concrete wall,
It's holding your ******* hand and your cold skin and knowing it has nothing but warmth underneath,
And its wanting to die before I hit thirty.
It's burning, it's certain, and it's haunting.
I'll never be without that.

— The End —