Self-Harm

You left the poinsettia I (stole) got

for you in the Rotunda or maybe

the breezeway.

 

Seasonably gray clouds foreshadow

thick dots on window panes,

heavy drops roll, puddles comfort

 

cracks in the cobblestone path

as we walk further away from red

silk petals in shadows

 

clumped like sunken hearts.

We pass through a green door

A friend greets us, you say “eyes

 

Are the windows on the house” but

in the house, on the house you couldn’t

see through green housing my worry,

 

the tea evaporated you into the rain.

Eyes are made for recanting chemical

trails, rainbows that run from street

 

lamps and headlights. You don’t know ears

are walls, distinguishing heart-felt apologies

from whispers in the spouts of a fountain.

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