Even though the rhythm
of your footsteps has left
in my mind echoes resounding,
I did not so much as flinch
when I heard you breathing
in between beats.
I'm sorry for shuddering, but
blood has boiled
my nerves numb
muddied everything I see
dried out my tongue
and though I launder
your shirts every week,
I still don't know what you smell like.
Feb 26, 2020
Feb 26, 2020 at 8:12 PM UTC
Even though the rhythm
of your footsteps has left
in my mind echoes resounding,
I did not so much as flinch
when I heard you breathing
in between beats.
I'm sorry for shuddering, but
blood has boiled
my nerves numb
muddied everything I see
dried out my tongue
and though I launder
your shirts every week,
I still don't know what you smell like.
Prompt: Losing one of your senses. This poem is about a time I wasn't okay with one of my parents and as a result, I'd become immune to their expressions of love and affection.
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