There is a nervous energy in the air,
a long, lonely corridor,
question marks in blood,
drip down the wood,
flooding at my feet.
I wade in wine.
I stopped drinking for the summer,
because I felt dehydrated.
I had cried the sweetest months away,
and there was nothing left,
I trek along with typed up notes in hand,
blood leaking into my black suede shoes,
each step, shattering my endurance.
I knocked on every door,
knuckles, sore and screaming,
always running before they open,
because I already know what’s on the other side,
but your door is different.
I don’t knock straight away,
but I don’t run either.
I just stand by your door,
tracing your question mark with my fingers,
the blood still warm,