Poem Twenty One

I was fumbling with angora,
champagne, with a hint of
rose,
you talked
in riddles.

As if folding laundry
was normal,
it was words
mixed with emotional
scars and folding
obnoxious clothing
was my way of running.

I ran away in silence
as truth forced it's way
in the brain,
cracks of the heart,
and other alcoves
of entry.

I needed to hear you
complete the rhyme.

Pain awakens a woman
who's been numb and toxic
for over twenty years.

I think of you
when vodka
spews from a strangers
exhale,

So I start to fold
that god awful sweater
and begin writing
poem twenty one.