The red of your lips

The red of your lips

A sacred wound of ruby,

where wine runs slow,

and in its curve

the weariness of desire trembles.

You speak,

and the air tastes of iron,

as if all love

carried the scent of rust.

Your lips — are not crimson,

they are that border,

the place

where my fever learns to pray,

slowly.

For I am a creature of penumbra,

who drinks silence from you,

that severed silence,

shadow of the red of your lips,

the one that once drank from me.

While the wine

was still falling.

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This poem is part of Lunettes Steeped in Absinthe, my first bilingual collection of Gothic poetry (2026). It explores desire, loss, and the sacred weight of what remains unsaid.