In the room, blindly

my fingers trace the space 
like braille, their corners slant
in secret language

i shuffle a few steps
there's a scent of dead flowers & warm heated air -
and what is round becomes angular & sharp: 

needles & knots, 
grains unpolished, tiny gaps 
between wood & glass, 
rough painting skein, thick spine of bed 

where you said you love the shape 
of my face, slope of my neck,
texture of my lips-

outside shuttered windows
winter wind whips & howls a thousand
bleating war songs

but all i hear is the ticking clicking seconds
so loud
so loud  

in this room
empty of center & velocity  
                                         - you



Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Hosted by Brian Miller
Picture credit:   here