the intangible rises and breaks through skin,
appearing as shards of lament, and in the
process desiccating any need for apologies,
you falter for just a minute. you sweep up
the shards, wondering if this absolves you
of the sadness that dies every morning but
is reborn at night.
upon gathering the hurt in your palms,
you hold it, letting it breathe and fester
into mold. you examine your skin,
riddled with wounds, wondering if
it will scar over. you diffuse the
hurt in the brackish waters of
your subconscious, for now,
anyway, and proceed to pluck
fruit.
nibbling on it,
you temper in the
momentary
peace.
