Sweat

A pool of perspiration
gathers, glistens
on the skin of your bare chest
until it overflows like tears
and slides down the dark paths
inscribed under the surface
in order to remember
what must not be forgotten.

It is nearly the time of Solstice
and the sun that marks the passage
of another season and your favor.
Your patience is gone
with the heat of this long journey
around a lifetime of loving
what is impossible to love.

Little blisters bubble
in the cells of your ring finger.
They talk to each other
like giggling school girls
passing rumors of lost love
through the passages
of the day.
A small and tender heart emerges,
beaten from this skin
as if by magic,
but you know the pain
of the choker chain
that reminds you
of your vows to that suffering.

There’s no use pretending
the spirit will ever get something it can’t have
when you’ve marked yourself
in the blood you can’t wash away--
even after the scab has hardened
and the scar is the only remaining mark.

Back at your damp flesh
your mind is brought up short
by that harsh master
and his short leash.

A cloud passes overhead
and you feel the chill
of the opportunity not taken—
of fear of this unknown.
Regret is the ghost that haunts you
like a melanoma waiting to surface.