Gentle fingertips
caress the piano
of my ribs,
and she reminds me
to eat something hearty
this winter
when it’s easier
to hide my nothingness
beneath knitted sweaters
and sleepless
nights spent longing
for something heavy.
Bones creak
when I run, so I don’t.
I’m tired of dreaming
but too drowsy to wake.
My body is the frame
of a building
long forgotten, and
the carpenters are away.
Some days,
wilting is like breathing,
but she swears
I’ll get better with water
and something earthy
in this belly
mostly occupied
by moths.
Often,
I question her mastery
of thriving
like sunflowers,
times beyond the bleak,
or nights of undisturbed slumber.
“I am everything
before and after,” she whispers,
fingers tracing
the shaded depressions
of my ribcage
where strength had perished
this autumn and last.
“I am now,” I cry
through labored lungs,
fueled not by
skin and bones,
muscle or lack thereof
but the bittersweet memory
of being her.
“So was I,” she sighs,
and, together,
we clamber
through the frigid window,
bare our shoulders
where velvety wings grow,
and flutter toward
the forgiving
moonlight.
About the Creator
Sam Eliza Green
Wayward soul, who finds belonging in the eerie and bittersweet. Poetry, short stories, and epics. Stay a while if you're struggling to feel understood. There's a place for you here.
Comments (3)
Every word you have written is beautiful! I struggle to keep up with the basics, so I can thoroughly relate to this!
Sigh. So sad and lovely.
you have a beautiful way with words