Colorblind

Nights of teetering on the edge
And watching wine stain
Through the sheets with more vigor
Than our stale eyes could
Express.

Her collarbones catching
Mutilated moonlight let in by
The broken slats in the motel
Blinds. Then I ask her “What
Color are your eyes?”

She turns away, exposing
The expanse of freckled cream
On her back where the fat slivers
Of moonlight make a cross with
Her spine, as still, as permanent as
Our broken promises.