A new smile.
Big and reaches the eyes.

A new voice.
Lighter and softer words.

A new body.
Stronger and truer in touch.

A new mouth.
Kisses so soft and real.

The warmth in my chest is wonderful and familiar.
It is the stirring of a new story.
I cannot wait to read it.

This presence is easy and calm.
No rush.
No strain.
No worries.

I cannot wait to feel it.

Do you ever wonder down your memoirs,
And gaze upon the sight.
Of decisions made and choices missed
And questioned if you were right.

Do you see the tape of your first big mistake?
Playing over and over again.
Had you stayed. Or run away.
Chased by the laughter of men.

Do you hear the glass breaking?
Mother told you no.
And if only you had listened
Your friend wouldn’t have had to go.

Is the smell of his breath still sticking to your skin
where kisses he placed set?
Are they anchors to your body?
A chord to be played on a fret?

Does the vivid memory of Ben
Sting just as before?
Has Ben let you go?
Or do you just go back, begging for more?

What about your first time?
Do you love him still?
Is he too far gone down a road
With you trapped in the bougainville?

You look for the rewind.
Wish for another chance.
Hope to god that all this
Is just what they call lost in a trance.

I cannot cry anymore.

When I stub my toe
Or twist my ankle
Or even when the dog in a movie dies.

Sure...I bubble a little and my heart aches too.

But tears for a boy, disguised as man?

There is no blood in my heart left to wring out.
The glassy pools he used to dive into are dry.
And old, cracked concrete sits and bleaches in the sun.

The hurt is there.
The hurt runs deep.
The hurt is all the reminds me it was real.

But I cannot cry anymore.

Brown and White:

They paint a picture of creamy 70s house-life comfort, and makeup the bruises on hearts.

Orange and Green:

You stand in the green; roil, roll, fight, sweat, and faint in its infection. The orange sits in your toilet bowl, fumes of acid make you retch.

Blue and Yellow:

That's why envy is green, because you take the sadness of blue, and the joy of yellow and you get a manic, violent splatter.

Red and Pink:

Puppy dog love and bulging instinctive passion don't mix well. One is smiles and gentle kisses on closed eyelids, the other is sweat down tensed backs and barred teeth. A flower in a storm.

Like a briefcase
My words are ordered
In neat dividers.
Your file is to the back.

The form I pull out
Looks official and has
A FINAL NOTICE stamp.
Dear Mr....reads.

I don't know if they're
Hammers on your heart
Or if they'll cut strings
And let you go free.

I have something to tell you.

I don't know if your eyes
Will glisten or narrow or
Fein "okayness"
They are just words to me.

I am a postman
I have to deliver these
Words.

I have something to tell you.

I'm sorry.