That Morning

You said you liked your women
to be quiet. Keep
themselves to themselves. File
nails, feeding the silence
with dark red.
Knife cutting your words
in slices, leaving them
hanging from a wall, or following
a stranger in the morning grey.
Smell of coffee, and
the eye of chance. Sleepy water
going somewhere.
You spoke of the ugliness
in beauty and the short
life of love. I inhaled
the dampness in the air.
Saw her fingers curling over
your last words.

OH

........