It was some saturnine tradition. We were always watching the sky whisper, a summer storm chanting to the sleepy lake. Sing me to darkness, a soar towards death, frantically grasping beneath a blue spring, your mother, and his arms. I didn’t dare look. Peeking between fingers. Gasping and heaving, the sun set below to the places even you can’t see. The sky became blankness, a space that fills and leaves you empty. It consumes you, starting from your toes – pins and needles – past your shins, your wrists, your cheeks, and finally over your head.
Breathe easy, I am here. But what have I become? I am painted over, Discarded, caught between your mattress and sheets. A part of the monotony Trapped in your cacophony
The cure, now the cause No time to pause My flaws – you’ve changed Or have I?
Count them. Each second clings Sticky, like the mud that you So desperately scrubbed from your skin Sore, like my heart, arms folded “I’m cold” across my chest