My fingers are made of glass;
Pain pulsating upwards like hot forks of lightening,
Can you see it run up my index fingers,
Like mercury in grandma’s old thermometer?
When the pain is gone
I become me again;
But without the pain,
My poems are empty,
my smile more faint,
How do I flesh out just the good?
How do I sift out sorrow-less moments like a snowy layer of finely dusted powdered sugar;
The memories that are most sweet
Are often paired with tartness,
Like the Swedes pair toppings of lingon berry on crepes,
43 years on this earth;
I cannot discard the bitter, but rather overpower it
Flesh out the hurt,
And relive, if only in a memory,
The first kiss of summer again

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