Your First Message

There is a nervous energy in the air,

a long, lonely corridor,

unfriendly doors,

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,

but still,

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,

and you,

so inviting.