Why oh why 
do the bruises 
keep showing up 
I hide them 
with a concealer 
but someone always 
knows exactly where 
to poke me 
why does this 
heart always bleed
on my outside 
where everyone else 
can always see 
maybe one day 
someone maybe will 
find these bruises 
of mine attractive 

I dislike firsts
first anything really 
I prefer weathered
worn and comfy
cozy and kind 
the firsts of 
things are too
new to know 
or to keep 
firsts are fleeting 
whereas I prefer 
the flawed kind 

When the winds
of life change 
from icy chill
to cooling breeze
from huddling cuddles 
to languid lounging 
so does the 
expression of same 
one causes retreat 
the other welcome 
and like a 
vise of vices
I am pinched
between my exile 
and my desire 
squeezed by isolation 
then by arms
and the juice 
of me stored
or maybe swallowed 

And as the moon
skates across the sky
dipping behind the mountains 
for one brief moment 
your bronzed body turns 
to an iridescent gold 
almost hovering prone like 
an Egyptian prince on
an alabaster dias and 
I wishing to pay
homage and then once 
the moon finally disappears 
so does the fantasy 
but not the mystery 

I unlike most 
have everything that 
I need and 
most of what
I want I
consider myself very 
blessed with things 
even though I 
don’t have everything 
I have enough 
and that gap
is the only 
place of dreams