I open* up your old wounds this evening—
ways you used to feel, and strangely,
things, I, too, used to know.

I wonder how you’ve gone this long—
walking among the roses with their blooming thorns.
It seems your gashed ankles will continue to bleed out only until
you finally choose to leave the bushels behind.

I believe in things we both have, at times, left on the side of the road—
like how faith can restore and
love can sustain and
heartbeats can harmonize but
we’ve both become callous and torn.

I sleep with the dogs tonight—
they lick their wounds, as do I.
Chasing demons in our sleep,
stretching our limbs in the waning hours,
waking for a drink of water to quiet our
frenzied hearts and minds.

I can no longer be a part of this—
you must paint your own house in this new color
you refer to as “escape,”
but I only know as
scarlet.*

I will whisper nothing more of
how two hearts each approaching the same eclipse
somehow managed to tread lightly
on a great perhaps.

I have imbedded the sewing needle and thread into your palm,
and though it may have hurt for a time, you must now go:
stitch up your own wounds.