wet and grey and so cliche as to be two times too absurd.
Reflections in puddles a kaleidoscope of hurt,
my special places with triple the faces,
when all I wanted was to be first.
There's a tightness in my chest at the muscles in your thighs,
a trace of your taste on the tip of my tongue,
sweetening reflexive lies.
When once I thought I saw colors blooming--
pinks and reds and purple bruising,
instead I found I had grown those flowers alone.
My crowded garden of lovers with faces turned from me towards the sun,
kneeling to weep, I see the April rains are done.