Apricot
I was wandering again,

In the rain, March-ish, gazing at the cherry blossoms in the streetlight.

As wild as a teenager, suddenly, younger than
thirty again, barefoot, toes extend, still broken and twisted
from those years before, stepping gingerly over cracks and puddles.

I am as bashful as an apricot, unpressed
between your fingers, honey and effeminate,

to paint myself for you I would say:

silver rings, opal and turquoise, wide eyed, full hip,
long hair,

still,
it looks good on me.