A bottle,
for your emotions.

Laugh they do,
"Bottling unable-impaired are we."

Deepest, softest, hardest
They cry.
Babbling, roaring waves waterfall into cascading hues.

Hues
A blind eye could see.
Color, color, color feeling
For vestiges of buildings and movie credits.

Bottle, bottle
Not me.

Color feeling instead.

It burns your joints
A silence, so loud, it ricochets off the walls in your mind
It is not a deafening silence
It is the kind that makes your ears ring
A quickening of the pulse
Invasive to the mind, like a dog's bark at 5:30 pm on a chilling December night
Your soul is screaming
Your toes are purple when you look down at them in the shower
It's all surrounding you
Pressing your arms to your sides as water runs over your mouth
Your pulse thuds in your ears so loud
It is equivalent to a locomotive train
It burns your joints

The steady thump sounds dull to my fingertips touch.
Shadows bend silently towards the spot in which I stand.
Rooftop corners morph into reaching hands.
Bare treetops beckon me.
Tiredness engulfs me,
Like the setting sunlight silhouetting the naked trees.
The tectonic plates beneath the surface of my skin shift ever so slowly.  
Allowing an ache to snake through me in whispers.
My blood gurgles in response to the changing sunlight,
To the rise in temperature.
My body ceaselessly remembers,
What my mind has tried so hard to erase.
So that I cannot pin the shiver that runs across my skin.

Your eyes started to turn like the leaves of October.
By November a stillness settled around you.
The barren trees whistled your name.
My heart thudded in my chest.
December crept around.
Your gaze no longer held mine.
It snowed.
My hands were cold.