weak grey light
peels up my eyelids.
we used to take walks
on cold days like this
little finch,
you far ahead and full of life
me, behind
i walked so slow i
felt more empty
than
I am now
a pane of glass
i’d like to have shattered it
if i tried
i can’t quite get it right.
if only i could say,
if only it was,
was
I walk on
cold hands, open
by my sides
somewhere on the ground
a tender thing
the grass is grey, pressed down
i want to lay with my face up
and feel it press me down like that
freeze me still
make my bones unstuck together
and compress me into the earth
like a damp leaf
instead i’m cold as stone and i feel like it too
hard. hard.
there were times i was warm as butter
none of it mine
a hundred degrees of softness
i’d wrap you up in it,
if i could; and me too, both of us
warm yellow melt
i’m a piece of stone
my mouth tastes of minerals, iron, salt
the teeth hurt
somewhere on the ground
a tender thing
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