Medium Rare

Chica_cachetona

The rain falls gently all around,
touching my face like an ancient great-aunt,
her cold slick fingers trying to recall
what warm and soft felt like.
Easily forgotten, I’d imagine,
if I didn’t know the truth,
without imagining.

I suppose I could slap my cheek
and then brush my fingertips
against a freshly shaven expanse
of warm pink flesh, but that would be
like touching a medium rare steak,
lifeless and ultimately not good
for what ails me.

The wind’s shifted and the rain
comes harder now, stinging my cheek
with the old slap of reality
that I wouldn’t recall warmth anyway.
See, I’ve always been a medium rare
kind of guy and this rain’s just a reminder
of what really ails me.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s