ptsd

your fingers  cured as leather
surprise my cheek and bottom lip
by instinct i recoil
i know you felt it
i smile face looking down
you look at the alley
changing the subject
to how fast flowers die
after being picked without chemical support
by instinct i recoil
paranoid that you might be talking about me
later on in the cobalt night
sitting on my kitchen counter
hoping that maybe those lived in fingers
might think of caressing me again