socks half on,
comforter skewed,
and my nose worn from running,
I smell your cheap, debut cologne.
It's nothing special.
Just a store clerk's commission,
a blind leap into adulthood,
The facades of brands.
But,
It descends from inches above me,
Nonetheless,
a five year old veil,
perfect.
You run your cautious fingers through my hair,
Breathing reluctant cadences on my cheek.
You squirm your legs around mine,
Skin on cold skin,
upsetting the sheets.
You pull me from my sterile dreams.
No better than my clock's alarm,
Or neighbors' screams,
A lone strand of sunlight.
And a million intimacies.
But the veil falls,
and, with it, my nervous sweat.
I gather my arms beneath the pillow,
Cruelly bereft of that cheap perfume.
Just a life made of endless memories,
Five years old,
With others beside.
The hardest, impossible to forget.
Kevin Zimmerman
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