Day Three

Day three and the bruise is blue,

the blue

you see in old photographs,

the blue

of something

becoming

memory.

I was bumped.

Nothing.

Just a shoulder

in a doorway

and me

not paying attention,

not present,

not where

my body

was.

Two days it was red,

angry,

obvious.

Now it's blue,

and I can't

look away

from it,

can't stop

standing

in the shower,

staring

at the color,

thinking

this is

beautiful.

Which bothers me.

The bruise doesn't bother me.

The beauty

bothers me.

The fact that I'm here,

naked,

under the light,

finding

something

perfect

about

the thing

that marks

a moment

when I

wasn't

paying

attention.

It will change tomorrow.

Green by next week.

Yellow by the week after.

The blue

is only

now.

So I touch it.

Press it.

See if it hurts.

It does.

It doesn't.

It's somewhere

in between,

which is

worse,

which means

it's healing,

which means

this

color

is

temporary,

which means

I should

stop

finding

it

beautiful

and

move

on.

But I can't.

The blue

keeps

its shape.

Keeps

its

particular

shade.

Keeps

being

the most

beautiful

thing

I've

seen

in days.