TEN YEARS FROM NOW

Ten years from now, she says,
You won't remember the way
the sun burned your skin 
because you refused to leave
the sands of time, refused
to come in from the shine
you won't remember that
it rained and that the drops
stung your back like fire
you won't remember that
your eyes were on fire from
staring at the beauty 
of your lover's smile

Ten years from now, she says,
This time will be a blur
and for all your lament
that you can't/won't heal
your heart will be so strong
you won't remember
what it felt like to be so broken,
so sure that you would never
stand up straight again
you won't remember how
your nose refused to 
breathe from all the mucus
collected like coins in
offering plates, like
the way you stuffed paper
in all the wrong places
to appear grown

Ten years from now, she says,
This world will look with wonder
on your glory, will shade itself
from all your burst of shine
and heat and you won't remember
that you once believed
rain was fire.

© Valerie Bridgeman
June 16, 2013

DRAFT (does not at all feel 'finished')