Bloody, plum colored
digits...

You held my tears in your hands,
and tipped my chin upward to meet your eyes...

Excuse
after lie...

I'm a balloon,
taped to an oxygen tank...

Anything -
I don't want to feel...

5 years old,
and two inches small...

I don't know how to adjust
to the barcode erased from my body...

Saddened eyes,
cigarette...

The movements around me are thickly pouring syrup,
molasses...

You can hum your praises,
cry your sins...

I smell it in your expression,
I taste it in your body language...

Perhaps someday
we'll remember...