hallways,
fluorescent lights
the faint scent
of
latex gloves and
sheer nightgowns.
you stand there,
slowly breathing
in rhythm with
the ticking
clock.
he holds your hand,
the very touch
the transfer of
warmth
between your fingers.
you feel,
somewhat relieved
like if this were meant
to
simply
happen
you were glad
he was there.

didn't you always want this?
to be swaddled with
twinkling toes
and miniature socks?
was it not you
who felt the movement
and prayed for the unexpected?

the results aren't
even the hardest
part.
it is the waiting,
the absorbing
the acceptance
the denial,
it is the
in-between
yet also
the after.

as the blood
swims through
the plastic tube,
the liquified
decision
right there
in crimson red,
waiting to tell,
wanting to whisper
"your life may change,"
you look through
memories,
moments,
like catalogs
in magazines.

what happens next?
no one knows,
except the specimen
painted
masqueraded
in crimson red.