I shaved my head
the dead protein I suffered small talk
to stripe and style and now it shines
just like the rest of theirs,
the scalps of would-be conquistadors,
made into saggy stocking caps.
I tattooed my neck
with a dotted line
and 'cut here' in cheerful Comic Sans.
They kept the bottom part.
I took my extra bits
and slid them across the table in case someone needed them.
They slid them back--
but my left kidney won Best in Show
And my right lung was an honorable mention.
I sewed the ribbons to my chest.

We sit under the raspberry tree
On the deck behind coffee-purist haven.
The sky is grey and the coffee is black
And the raspberries bouncing off our heads
Alternate between new green and blush pink.

Blush like the cheeks of two people who held hands once in middle school
And meet again as 'adults' with cars and college credits.

The chubby boy from music class went punk in a hurry and smokes.
The loudmouth girl with a bowl cut read far too many books and fidgets.
Our paths diverged through no fault of our own --
Only to touch back briefly when the snow melted each year.

Yet there we sit in the raspberries and in the promise of yet more rain,
And fill the gaps in our lives with stories
Of times between summers --
Heartbreak, hobbies, tattoos, awkward kisses --
And there's one of those too, at the end.
A long-time coming, heart-stopped second between strangers and best friends.

The poet sits across the table in the dimness
Toying with cigarettes, fingers, thoughts
Of a pair of collarbones like bumps in the road,
Reminders to slow down.

The poet falls in love three separate times in an hour,
Imagining more collarbones, eyelashes, lips
That suddenly ask if he’d like to order anything,
No room. No, he’s full head to heels of unspoken words.

The poet sips his water and we try to make him laugh because we are teenagers in a sports bar at three in the afternoon on a Friday and we just want him to be ******* happy, ******* it to hell.

You told me you loved me yesterday
but I understand if something changed.
I'm wearing the perfume in the gold bottle today
instead of the one in the blue
and I curled my hair --
but you always liked it like that, so maybe I'm wrong --
perhaps you still love me.

Maybe you work for one and he's finally retiring ten or twelve years after he should have
And you give him a card with boats or mountains or geese on it,
And you tell him thank you for being patient and for hiring you,
And he just nods and reminds you to submit your time sheet so you get paid for the month,
And you see the card propped up on his desk in his office when you leave.

Maybe your older brother is one and he found a lighter in your bathroom
And he tosses it onto your lap while you're reading and just stares at you,
And his jaw is a little off centered because he's trying not to grind his teeth,
And he says, "I don't want to see this **** again,"
And you know he smokes sometimes but you nod and give it back to him, hands shaking.

Maybe your dad is one and it's your senior prom,
And you're wearing a dress he paid for posing on the stairs so your mom can take pictures,
And your sisters are talking about your hair and your flowers,
And your mom says you look beautiful and looks at your dad,
And he's standing in the doorway with his arms crossed,
And he takes his hat off and puts it back on and blinks a lot and nods,
And his eyes are a little red,
And so are yours.

We are quotation marks
and your arms are so warm.

What?
           It's okay.
Are you okay?
                        I'm okay.
Why didn't you say anything?
                                                     I just wanted it to be okay.
Is it?
       It is, now. I'm trying.
I'm sorry.
                 Me too. Can you hand me the paint can? We missed a spot.