Poetry: These are not empty chambers

Colour photograph of feet in black high heeled shoes soaked in fake blood

your dark is explosive
abundant in red
it crashes and
rattles windows
in their frames
on a tide of excess
it leave holes where
doorhandles used to be

my dark is half frozen
in silence and solitude
born of determination
and vicious
a poison of whispers
it resonates in dry
unforgivable echoes

these are not empty
chambers where your
dark meets mine
like strangers who pass
on the street with
a sense that in a
past life they might
have been lovers

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