thank you for sharing your childhood books with me.

Breathe in his thoughts like smoke,

hold them in, keep them stitched to your lungs.

Exhale a chained up series of

bitterly hopeful, hopefully bitter words.

Breathe in the worn-out memory

of all the times he wore

his heart on your sleeve--

hold it in, like medicine;

and whenever you are ready,

let your clammy hands uncurl,

let your shaking body rest,

pause the unending film depicting

all your impulsive, reckless mistakes.

And as you bite the inside of your cheeks,

as you pick at your face, scalp, and fingertips,

you know for a fact that all of this simply means

it is too late to go back in time.

You see, there are two choices, when you are

between a rock and a hard place:

A) swallow the red medicine without

a spoonful of sugar to help it all go down,

or B) pretend it will someday disappear

the longer you ignore it, the longer you hold it

tightly in, never letting it

coat anything beyond the

swollen, angry lump

living rent-free

in the back

of your

throat.