She said she read auras, mine she said, was
red: I told stories and as we
lay on the ground and I recovered from the
metaphor of an aura
said to be red I told her a story in the
form of a poem of two people
living on two different islands and the journey
it might take for them
to reach out and find each other and in
that darkened room the red
forgotten my words floated out to touch the
cosmic pressed tin ceiling
and her hand reached out as she told me red
was not so bad after all
not of it came with a voice as bright as any full moon and
in the dark
I remember I smiled at that and thought my
words were more like hooks
that the ideas behind them were the bait for
her lips to nibble upon
and then she said but though red was fine
for me it spelt only trouble
for her and before the next breath fell into
the anchored lungs within
my shipwrecked chest she rose up like a
leviathan in the night and left:
I remained an island drifting again through
the ocean of another night.
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