Tell me something, in the dark of night when no one can see, why it is that this cut still bleeds?
Seems like it has been long enough. Seems like tears are dried and words are a violent memory.
Shaking has past, black alone, lids sealing in weak sensitivity. You are walking down the street breathing in the night with someone else, a quiet replica. She cooks from a box and skips syllables. Drives manually and expects neglect. I can feel all of that there, I can see you nodding in approval, in your tiny victory over feminism.

Clear your throat...

And I will tell you something. It bleeds because you are alive to live. Seeking the day that leans toward a humble beginning. A gentle future of family, friends, ferns, fundamentals, free.
Tears are the moisture of your soul, the by product of a body working towards an end result with no end. He is there, waiting. Not that old but one that knows and sees and loves. Peel away that thick cover for the fresh skin to take shape and reply to the outside.
Hold it there, soft and sentimental, caring and converting all the water to wine.