1.
I am at the awkward age - 
trying to fit in the world of ill-fitting suits and time-off forms,
coupled with late-night rock shows and ankle shoes.
Harder now:
  feeling a love that isn't mine to have,
  cotton-candy, caramel apple, mini-donut
  sweet kinda sickness
  the things you can't have but other people will.
  (That her eyes are glazed over with satisfaction is no condolence, thank you.)

2.
I've got the sense that I can no longer tell the bags from my eyes from yesterday's makeup
and that I'm better-off saying nothing than telling you that the change isn't working
that it wasn't worth it.
I'm swallowing my pride, and swallowing my words too.
It's a visit of blank-stares and paper-shuffling.
No touching.
I can taste the jealousy on the tip of my tongue and know nothing better than to swallow it down.
This acute kind of affliction I'm not so familiar with.
I hope it's an acquired taste, and I swish it around until I can demonstrate my familiarity with each individual note.

3.
My fingers don't feel the cold anymore, but my eyes do.
It's easier to be the one with red cheeks and eyelashes of frost than to be the one 
who believes in permanence.
We know that this too shall pass.
We're waiting for the great melt.
We're waiting for the storm to pass.
This is not the end.
This is not the end.

I can see now
that the problem is mine,
and while I can still keep the truth
tucked away in my sleeve,
the weather is changing
and threatens to expose.

It is not enough to crush the thing that hurts us,
we also must replace it.