It's as ridiculous as flicking your tongue
across the sore you made, biting your cheek,
early last week.
Pointlessly running over what will
only turn to scar tissue one day
if you don't stop snacking on your mouth
as if the wounds will always heal
smooth as glass.
Still, you taste the ridge
a good three times before it hits you;
a soft tissue testimony to what you might hear
sitting across from ten years sober
too wise to hold the definition hostage
like some two-bit terrorist
might finger the grenade
in an innocent's view.
An explanation of sorts, mingling with the guy
who would have drunk cologne,
and did, when push came to shove.
It's the denial that spreads
like some overzealous virgin
flung sidelong a poorly made bed.
With her you can dance barefoot
on unfinished floors and stay amazed
at the splinters you find.
Alone, you'd slip on your shoes,
polish the floor, send the virgin on her way,
six one way - half dozen the next,
it'd be over.