I feel the nerves below the surface
Fragile skin over lightness of heart
Lazaro laughs and leans back on one elbow
Mary enters and breaks the alabaster jar
Releases a dark and grieving perfume
Sobering in the pulse of scent-drunk air
Wipes it away with tresses of hair but its
Everywhere, reaches the room’s deep secrets
Somebody, perhaps Lazaro, takes my hand
and squeezes to share my otherness and
the pain of acceptance.
Things will never be the same.
