I’ve always wanted to be the one
who fills in the blanks. At night I conjure
lips pressed to the usual hollows,
the spaces beating hummingbird wings,
hear my voice breathe warmth into
the room where we began, where we
would begin—hands signing instructions
for touch in seven lost languages.
Maybe you think I’m talking about
emptiness, about regret. I’m not.
Greenhouse heat fills the days,
life is dappled with bloom. At dusk
the sun slants through glass
and the slender curves of stems
bend toward grace. Note how
each petal holds the light inside it.
Note that the petals don’t exist.
You can’t imagine their delicacy,
the dazzling, invisible air.
About the Creator
Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
Compelling and original writing
Creative use of language & vocab