I miss, long nights
in the twinkle
of your eye,
with your soul.
Fall again, nature’s efficiency satisfies me
with the consistency of sunsets I no longer watch
still I might like to see one more
the crisp air stinging my face
leaves crackling underfoot
air expanding in my lungs
feeling again, one last time
a regretful reeling of every mistake
every love misunderstood, every path not taken
the sensation of winter’s loss
sends a chill through my core
of the constant anticipation of spring.
In your brokenness
I found comfort.
a feeling I know so well,
at home in the awkwardness.
there was no need to speak,
I knew what you had to say.
Because with every beginning,
there is always an ending.
but this time, yes, this time,
I have no more beginnings.
On my path, it rains,
my dry skin moisturized.
For the first time, I stop,
observing the bend up the way,
inhaling the fragrant orchard bloom
I try to understand, how I never noticed
the bloom of thistles, water lilies,
dog rose, blue bells, dragonflies.
My steps are overwhelmed
by the need not to move, conflicted
by what lies up ahead, predators in between
lie each side in wait, to take:
my limbs, my children, my life.
I shake with the weight of my little chest
that holds within it a golden soul,
ready to shine.
Tied at the kitchen sink,
screams captured, by the ceiling –
photos in the sitting room tell a different story.
all that was left was a girl in a box,
buried alive, if only she’d been oxygenated.
Once a sweet peach,
everyone peered in, murmuring:
‘what happened to her?’
Wails of what they might say –
if only there was one more day,
the sun might rise – she might see it differently,
But the horrific truth:
he would not find happiness,
not until he had her in a box.