Click, click, click, it's stuck
A voice if you'd call it that in tune with
one jerky movement
The poor girl trapped inside the box
seizes and dances with lightning
through her veins and water in her head
One rhythm, no expression
Just a dull 'eee-o-o-o-eee-o-o-eee'
Wake up, Jesus, please let me wake up
Love doesn't always feel like love.
Sometimes it's so faint within you,
you forget it,
But it will always linger between
Only showing up to send the
of your pulse into
You feel it when your heart skips
a beat and races so you
feel like you can't
Those are the times
you remember your love
Shorter than me. About 5 feet and one measly inch. Grant it I'm only two measly inches.
But I'd hug her. Wrap my arms up and around her teeny shoulders and back around her small frame.
I'd hug her. Tight and close.
She is the smallest of the three of us. However, she's the oldest. She will be twenty tomorrow.
I'd hug her like the first time I left her as she went to her decorated dorm room for college.
I'd squeeze her. For as long as she would let me hold her.
At that time she had just wanted to be free. A few months later she cried to me about how she wished she was home, back in bed sleeping beside me the way we had spent most of the last two years.
I miss her. Oh, how I'd hug her.
Skipper. Petit and sad. She sometimes hates the hugs I give her.
My mom always says she is lucky. She needs someone as warm and loving as me.
I'd hold her, keep her there until I had to let her go. Or at least until she made me. Yet, I know she cried too as she walked away and we stood and watched.
I wish I spent more of my summer a long side her. I regret it and I'm sorry I didn't.
It may have been her last summer home.
I didn't even drive her to Colorado. She didn't mind. She was excited for her new life.
If I had spent my time with her I would have made her miss me. She would want to visit.
I'd hug her. My arms around her bony back. I'd hold her.
Keep her for my own. No one could touch her. No one could hurt her. Not even herself.
I skip that song again.
Too many memories still hang on the words,
the notes clang like old glass bottles
the woman with the red scarf tied to the oak tree,
they knock in the wind, fragile whiskey ghosts,
of times to sacred to be remembered now.
So I'll skip that song
till the bottle strings break,
and my someday-daughter asks
about the snowflake shards of glass
beneath the old oak tree.