Red high heels waiting in ruby patience
in blind, funeral-black corners
of the closet

Snatched, in a blur of vibrant scarlet
by manicured hands,
anticipation vibrating in thin veins

Glowing raspberry-resplendent,
Flirting with equilibrium across the home threshold,
The wobbling heels like a weak-willed conscience

Lost (almost) during the steep stairway trek,
down the dark stairwell, blade sharp heels
almost bouncing off iron handrails, thinking Cinderella.

Clacking along smooth cement,
their deep amaranth shying
from the electric graffiti

Glistening crimson in dim bar light,
almost as rich as the Cabernet
reposing in blackened blood-like burgundy in glass depths

Twinkling, as womanly heels do,
gleaming the kind of passionate red that sounds
like hips and whispers meaning someth(nothing)ing

Red, like a severe, immovable
stop-
sign, abruptly halting mid-twinkle, offbeat from dance riffs.

Clacking down the dark stairway,
the sharp heels making indignant sounds
against the imperturbable stone— no falling this time.

Thrown into the closet corner that is the kind of dark
you wake up to after a nightmare,
their faint vermillion almost lost to the night.