Red

The table cloth is so red. I hope it was not painted with blood but I’m sure it was.

You hands, the same red. I hope they weren’t painted but I saw them do it.

I’m sure you will come home late, if you do come home.

And when you do, you will stay forever. In the morning you will keep me in bed, wrapping your red hands around my noose of a body.

If you leave again, I will refuse to accept this false hope, and I will miss you, call you, cry for you to come back- and you will. But all that will get us is this, how we ended up here in the first place.

So we stand, sit, talk, your hands holding mine, dripping with the ink of my demons (your friends) and as we paint the table cloth again, this time a darker shade, you grin with my smile, and I cry free tears.

Your eyes are so red. I hope I have not upset you, but I’m sure I have.

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