We gather wounds but soon they scar.
We tend to each and one of them with affectionate precision.
So they can sink in oblivion like sugar in cappuccino froth
on days when weather changes briskly
(As it would, right? in a city like ours)
A fluorescent thud alights under each memory of a scar
Filling the city people with iridescent melancholy
that gathers in the middle of our chest
It pulsates, 1, 2, 3 …and maybe 4
Into the rose buds of our hearts
Fringed by etiolated petals.