second verse, same as the first

 
It isn't real until it's written
tacked through its spine
and set just above eye level  
to be confronted.
 
it was late Friday night
early morning hours
and I was in the bathroom
 
the frantic knock at the door shocked me
I gathered my gear too quickly
then exited
forgetting the sharp secret  
that's been warming my arms
for well over a decade
 
but this is years after the last  
of the very last
and the honesty that fills the space
when all the scabs have been picked  
padded flesh returned soothed  
 
that four days ago never happened
the sutures free from the last three
calling back the familiar hollow
of the you left when you erase what you like
 
today's a Tuesday after work
the load that doesn't get done  
after a three day kick
but it did
and the porch is still wood
 
the grass on the other end still green