Maroon
Folding your shirt
on cool brown granite in the chilly laundry room
leaves swirl outside without color.
Feeling its size, softness, warm from the dryer’s touch up cycle
The deep red
I feel marooned
as if your swells were
even now under my hands softening as
your
surface meets
flesh
yields
my hands following
pressing to where
surrender
meets resistance and
we reverse again
My palms’ surface
yielding
then you
further
surrender
There’s breath
with it’s catches
and releases, sighs
I can almost see your
eyes
in that place between
presence
and swept away
I love
so much
I flip the shirt over,
fold back its arms
(yes, there’s a moment this
is you, too, and undeniable
stirring deep)
and place it in the basket
The Berkshires are cold
in this November bleakness
while Miami is steamy hot
If you were here
it would be warmer
I would have to lock the
door
behind us.