Oct. 20, 2018

It is the time of night
when I wish I had more time with you.
We met, 
like a bullet to the heart,
but the surgeon’s hands were steady and sure,
as if they’ve seen as many scars from love
as therapists have.
The doctor left me in recovery for maybe a day.
After all, the whole incident
was quick, easy, and in the end,
seemingly uneventful.
A dream born from antiseptics and overhead fluorescent lighting. 
Or maybe that’s just the painkillers.

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