This is roses wilting
Hot air against dropping petals
As August tucks behind stucco buildings
As moisture winds its way out of sidewalk cracks
Between desperate weeds and wildflowers
This is the satin of her favorite bra
Softer than your favorite blanket
More electric than forks in unattended sockets
As nervous knuckles clench with anticipation
This is the sour grape staining your mother's teeth
Her lips rimmed with finished glass
The smell of dead love's last argument hidden beneath her tongue
This is new bruises that speak quietly and
Eyes cast downward with missing spines
Clasped tightly in the fists of those who left their emotions
On your skin.