Book Thirteen Poem by Anna Luiica

How fast do the hours approach?
With your fingers laced around a foreigner
Clinging to the possibility of rapture.
Do the minutes slip or crawl past the whites of your eyes?
The thick of your blood moves quiet
As I lay silently in the bed we made months ago.
The door closed and I was suddenly made aware
Your actions forced me into a darkened room.
As you pull yourself from another’s mouth
I listen to the remnants of the voices heard behind your locked bedroom door.
And the ways I was reflected in your eyes, projects in large proportions
Covering the smoke drenched walls.
How easily must we forget?
The ways our bodies convulsed in stark nakedness
Why must we endure the pain of wrongness?
All that was required was obedience.
But yet we took turns whispering false assumptions into sleeping ears.
The words float over the petals of rose coloured glasses
And the white snow feds your addictions
For we always belonged in Summer's gardens.