Portrait in Red
I could never wear red
the way you did;
The way you stood at the door,
beckoned to the evening
while I observed you,
believing that your dress
matched something in your eyes.
Thoughts I'd never thought you wanted
to hear me say
flowed through fingertips in graphite
and came to life as I looked down
at the end of the line.
I have never worn red
the way you did that night;
It framed your face, your golden hair
like a halo
that had never shone with such slippery light.
I chased you,
fell, a coward's step behind,
through the holes
in your empty white eyes.
In the city
where the buildings block the stars
like futuristic visions in graphite sleep,
the street light shines down orange
on the streets
where the shadows go.
Red shadows stalk them
as I observe,
sliding down through silicone thoughts
into the evening
that you let in
through a chain-locked door.
©1999 Elizabeth Hebert
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