There it is again.
That springtime longing for fall's forgiveness
and the urge for summer's passion.
It gnaws and whittles away inside you
til those insides ache and you're
more unhappy than you though you ever could be.
So you read all the old letters under your bed,
smell all the T-shirts in your dresser drawers,
then line up all your shoes,
and throw away the bouquet you've had
since he told you he loved you.
But not before you save one dried blossom,
maybe a carnation,
and stick in evilly with a thumb tack to your wall.
As you press down, you watch the blood
quickly rush from your thumb,
applying way more pressure than is necessary for the job at hand.
You feel a curious satisfaction in piercing the undead flower,
and simultaneously turning your finger a weird purplish-white.
You turn off the bedroom light and lie motionless in the dark,
governed only by the moon
as she issues her feeble blue light across your bedspread.
You run your tongue across your teeth and realize
you haven't flossed in weeks.
You finger the lining of your pillowcase
and twist a strand of hair, damp from bathing,
around and around.
You re-script every conversation,
and play them again and again like an old movie..
of which you will never tire.