There are moments that bruise.
Like rotten splotches on pink fruit;
all firm,
Interrupted by brown squish
thumbprints.
And you
survive, ripen, evolve.
But sometimes you run your hands
over sore spots
and feel that tender sting;
the embarrassment-adrenaline of people you have been.
In moments of quiet security,
you remember
her,
the she who you were
and hold her close.
Soothing bruises,
washing wounds.
Clucking, "You're okay."
