My heart needs to double layer his socks.
the popped blister on his ankle bled through.
bi-weekly my shrink says i need to talk,
but I'm stuck looking at freshly pink shoes.
unlike a road, a trail is paved by feet.
the weight of traveling bodies packs dirt.
and the bridge of my back is made of heat,
so the insects and worms crawl and they flirt
with the line between pumping and stillness.
Please see my veins and my arteries' hue
beneath my skin, lurking so villainous,
as they carry life, my pale shade of blue.
what's so sensible about hiking paths?
what's the release of a deeply red bath?
