By Derek Frazier
I came home at twilight,
sore from work, tired from the hours.
The sky was ebony, no birds in flight,
lights gleaming from the city’s towers.
I wasn’t expecting to fall in love all over again in the black.
You were laying on our bedroom floor,
wearing my shirt, its color matching the door.
No makeup. Your hair was undone.
You were staring at the wall as the clock spun.
I wasn’t expecting to fall in love all over again in the black.
The honeysuckle sweet of your lips
had more sugar than a bible verse.
I can still feel the velvet of your fingertips
on my body, running across my worse
scars. The blue of your eyes was the only light I could see
as I felt your arms envelop me.
I wasn’t expecting to fall in love all over again in the black.
The Moon’s silver light
made sparks out of falling rain.
The red of your hair was crimson in the night,
and your soft laughter bubbled like champagne.
I wasn’t expecting to fall in love all over again in the black.
My eyes tried to take in all of you.
You blushed and closed your eyes
while I lost myself in your black bird tattoo.
The window’s candle slowly died.
I pulled you close to me,
inhaled, and exhaled, breathing you in.
You said: “you make me live breathlessly.”
I replied: “kissing you makes my head spin.”
I wasn’t expecting to fall in love all over again in the black.
Post Script Magazine. 