1. 00:02 19th Aug 2010

    Tags: my poetry

    the aftermath of hard conversations

    My eyes are sore, like the spaces between my ribs and the joints in my fingers and the struggle to remember the last thing we talked about - it was good, wasn’t it? I think it was, and I smile. If it wasn’t - my day is ruined, distracted, disjointed, thoughts of our little victory garden getting weeds. The aches drag, drifting between my shoulders to my tailbone to my calves to the bones in my feet; thin, fragile, like my wrist when I stare at it stretched across my thigh - alone, missing yours, the length, the callouses which dissolve depending on the daydream, the fingertips which pressure without marks, leaving traces in my marrow.