This
This is the blister left behind by last week's worries.
The one that burned and danced its way down my throat
where it split my voice into tender stutters
that were fresh and raw.
And this is the route my eyes took to find that smile
that crept farther east than it did west
and sent your voice on a trip that began in my ears
and ended on my skin.
This is the sigh that scraped against my lungs
when I didn't find you waiting
and it dawned on me that maybe you never were,
that maybe I was just good at catching up.
And when you forgot how to talk to me
this is the pact you broke.
And this is the moment when I am glad it means I didn't have to.
Sonnet
Who am I to say what this day will bring?
For certain we know only that the sun
will rise before the moon and we know spring
will greet our frozen thoughts when winter's done.
But which words will stay by you in the night
and dance along the surface of your skin?
I cannot wish for more than to pour light
upon the place from which they came within,
where my chest rose and tried to form a sound
that caught beneath my lips that were a pair
of wounded children desperate to be found
by someone who could teach them not to stare.
And so as I ignite and turn to ice
I hope my broken silence will suffice.


