Bruise

It begins with red.

Tiny drops of carmine on some unsuspecting pigment-
petechiae. The hot hum of the aftershock.
There is a trauma of knowing, a blow to the mind that settles into the body
and forces it to watch the hemorrhaging thoughts and memories of its counterpart

and then there is just space. And it makes no difference what kind,
it knows no motive. The space where something once was and the space
between somethings that are is the same space. It’s the balm of friction,
a soft swell of blue and purple, an ephemeral stain.

I know the colors of regeneration because we have locked eyes.
Strange, fragile green and tender pinches of yellow,
glance over steady glance until the grand finale of brown-
the murky shade of recovery, in all its dull splendor.

And still, space.