I turned the moment over in my mind,
like a family heirloom,
or a relic
a symbol
or a stain
a blessing,
of blooming flowers
red
with the evening light.


My fists would be curled,
face gaunt,
toes
flexed
all at 13.

The weight would shift,
back and forth,
right to left, left to right.

Even up until that doorknob spins,
I'll feel the gentle sting
of mindlessness
and I'll pull back
a fist,
aiming to kill
hoping to miss.


You are the star.
Not the only star,
but the brightest.
Slicing through the clouds
and the moonlight,
cutting my skin
with magnetism.

And every cut,
is shaped like your lips.



The crease between your finger
and thumb
holds creation in a vice.