Red Ties

The bandage soaked, a bruise of red

pressed thin against the white gauze.

A whisper from the phone—your voice,

small but threading through the night.

I see the smear, that angry stain,

like something stubborn bleeding out.

The silence between us swollen,

not quite comfort, not quite fear.

I remember the kitchen sink,

your hands bruised, the knife’s sharp slip.

Old wounds that never closed, just shifted,

tied us tighter in quiet pain.

The night weighs heavy, thick with ache,

a bloodied thread I can’t untangle,

but hold, anyway, against my chest,

as if it might still beat for us.