Your Red

by David Mac

I really loved it there in your red room,
Where we drank cheap wine
And searched for cigarettes and Rizla,
Where we decided the rest of the world
Was not red enough
For us.                  

Long days in that place where you told me
Charles Bukowski was Charles Baudelaire
Reincarnated, and that it was ‘sooo obvious.’
‘Well, who am I?’ I asked.
‘Jane Austen,’ you replied.
‘I always thought so,’ I said.

And your rocking chair where I sat
And read ancient magazines you never threw away,
Listening to your terrible CD collection
Or watching films you owned but had never seen.
You chatted the whole way through them each time
Leaving me to know all the words.

If heaven was white and the sky was blue,
The world some other shade I
Couldn’t even fathom or make out,
And the colours of other girls’ rooms
Were less important,
It all didn’t matter to me.

It was only your room,
Only deep in that red,
Some place
That could’ve
Represented
Your heart.