another poem rough -

Apology

Your words are a clawed whip striking at my face-

the fanged crack of noise taking out my eyes,
leaving me hollow, and the torn sockets
filled with dry tears.

In my new emptiness I float outside myself,
in the bare moment of the echo
of word-pierced air.

In that breathless instant of freefall
my eyes find their voice again
and call back to me what they see:

Her crimson glare is a mask!
We see through the ruby lens of narrowed eyes!
It is not flickering fire, but chilled blue glistening
of sharp-frosted pain in her irises!

In the silence as you withdraw your whip
I find myself drained, on my knees, at your feet;
yet I am filled, again,
no longer with red, tense anger -
only cool violet remorse.

I press my forehead against
the back of your hand, and breathe.

And the balm of quiet soothes our tired eyes.