There are twists and turns and something left over

in the stories that we’ve woven about each other

that night when we drank a half bottle of wine more

than we usually do and, sprawled all over the carpet,

our bodies almost touching, the distance between our skin

was filled with static electricity waiting to turn kinetic

but some thing stopped it in its tracks.


I don’t know

what it is that kept us

from crossing


that cloudless


when the wine

was more


in our tongues

than our pulse.


I kept saying sorry

and in my peripheral vision

I saw you shaking your head,

no, don’t be sorry

but the words didn’t go


past your throat.


It is what is


that has stained

the carpet

leaving splotches

like a Rorschach,

and it’s meaning

is left only

to the beholder

and his dreams.


When I look at the carpet now

I see what could’ve been, a history

that dares not repeat itself

because of some thing that I have yet

to still define


my lover, your best friend,

sees the red taint

and remembers

New Year’s Eve, 2011,

one clumsy moment

that lead to laughter

and a kiss

and so on and so forth.


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