Dust gathers in the corners ---
Of smiles and bruised lips,
Smoke curls and stings black eyes,
Dulling senses with cigarettes...
He loves her ---
But only for the bruises.

Numbers smudge on damp palms,
Face up to the sunlit window,
She can see despite the curtains -
All the stars he pointed out...
In broad daylight,
And the narrow strip of august,
Listen for dial tone...
Eight numbers spelling neologisms,
And she can’t bring herself ---
To pick it up and call,
The bruises have faded...

Scared of the dark,
Tenderly she sits and switches off the light,
If only the sun would go away,
Ten minutes past midnight,
And it still mocks her,
The bruises are darker still...
Will he love her now... ?

Listen once more,
She hears morse code dial tones,
Sits in the chair with her poker face,
While rain trespasses ---
Through the open window,
Washing clean lovers palms,
Adding salt to the wounds,
Metaphorically speaking;
She is sliding down the razor,
Flat on her stomach,
Her tongue is her only brake...
Will he love her wounds...?

Fingers caress the receiver,
Old nail polish cracked and black and blue,
She scares herself for a moment ---
Idle thoughts of dialling all the numbers,
A not-so-random sequence,
Known by heart and palms,
She listens to the dial tone,
Whispers all she wanted to say,
Afraid that if she called him,
He wouldn’t remember who she was,
Scared more that he would...
He loved her once ---
For more than her bruises...

 
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