I remember once,
counting the loops on fingertips, discovering
they were as infinite as the stars.
I remember falling asleep
in lemon scented bedsheets
on my mother’s line.
I remember asking,
what will become of me?
Beneath the aged summer sun
lips press tightly where they shouldn’t be,
warmed by more than the heat of July,
rush of guilt mixed with desire,
caffled by smell of mown grass,
our own egos emaciated.
What becomes of me?
My hand, presses against the frozen pain
looking out at you looking in,
further away in grief
I wash my own lemon scented sheets
behind hooded eyes