sometimes,

there are scars
that only hurt
at dusk
when memory probes the darkest places
with a withered hand
and in sympathy,
the well worn paths cry out

sometimes,

morning
selfish, frightening and unkind
petrifies
and numbs.
no cup of coffee large enough
to wake a dormant heart
or still the chronic, medicated tears

sometimes,

regardless of
yellow balloons who beg to be noticed
violins who ask to be played
and shoes that long to dance

sometimes,

there are scars.