There is a red-hot remembering
at the mention of her name -
the growing pink upon her cheeks,
intensity of breaths, closing eyes.
There is a white-hot regret
that follows and a speechlessness
that has never gone away, an acrid
leaking in the middle of my chest.
There is a dark gray shame
that draws on my shoulders
and causes my eyes to blink wet.
I dare to look to you.
There is a deep-blue peace
that comes with the tilt of your head,
the resting of your hand on my cheek.
You lean into me, kiss me.
There is a yellow and a yellow and a yellow.
Boston Literary Magazine - Spring 2013