A nice woman online
told me I should write something new
soon, told me she would wait.
a sweet weight on my tongue
to keep. to have someone wait
for words, even as I lose a little faith
in words every day.
I lose a little bit of life.
I carry my bones around, and
that old ache of the soul.
my sadness sits on my shoulders
like an old ghost from a folk tale.
I can't write like I used to.
can't read. can't think
the same. and yet
I live, chasing a thrill. a flicker
of firelight. a small flash
when the clock stops a moment
and my hands smell of oyster shells
and saltwater and I can taste the sea on
my tongue, like in the end of a dream,
in the in-between when you are
both asleep and awake.
YOU ARE READING
Doux
Poetrythe walls with blued body scents soft on the skin, the curtains drawn and a lover asleep close by. ...
