It's only butter.

There is this wondrous moment. A brief one. But a moment still.
That moment filled with cherry blossoms and sweet aroma,
creme filled and full of hope that gently sets in my right shoulder as I get out of bed,
It walks me to the bathroom and watches my routine,
all my little bottles, my sunscreen and my blue hairbrush await for their turn.

I have my simple breakfast as I wonder what are all my friends abroad doing,
if my little dog understands when I talk to her and if my grandma will ever think of me as a man.
And then I pay attention to the drip coming from my previously occupied shoulder,
It slides like butter on an old pan and begins to turn into sweat, into a tear like substance
from my beat up body.

I take a step out into Santo Domingo and let in his dusty, musky and irreverent smell,
I close my eyes and think of sheep meadow in Central Park, sometimes I go back to
Madrid and smoke some costo en el Parque del Retiro and sometimes, on few occasions
I remember my 6th Birthday. I swallow a salty tear and get in my car.

Take me in again you small city you, take that big hammer of yours and break me in half again.
I'm never ready for it, but it doesn't matter that much.

For now, I'll just wait for my wondrous little moment that this tuesday will bring me,
and feel it again turn into helpless butter.

Cheer up. It's only butter.