I turned halfway
To seventy, haven’t
Felt stable since.
Henceforth call me
Nauseous and mean.
Colloquial serpentine, writhing
Beneath my skin
A grumbling within
My pale stomach.
I feel precious.
I feel unreal.
Just minutes ago
We were laughing
Under neon lights.
I still smell
Your particular scent.
Tobacco and cilantro.
Is this me
Coming around? Myself
Again, to be
Fully and consciously.
Like a snake.
Like what it
Dares to shed.