We are melded memories, genes that argue like children:
Who got there first? Who’s turn is it? Who is mom’s favorite?
In life we walk barefoot atop a white picket fence,
our longings swaddled in fleece held to warm flesh.
When fatigue arrives, we apologize as if the world were our own fault.
Blame, like a psoriatic second skin thickens tongues, dulls flesh.
We wander the aisles, pluck at shelves without purchase.
We awaken each morning to a dream of being awake forever.
We are burnt to ash bone.
There is that hint of something in your cloudless eyes.