You count the raindrops
long after they stop falling,
losing count when you reach
two-hundred and seven.
Time means nothing to you
because nothing fills it.
Light once split between your fingers,
but now you see grey,
not every day but most days—
it feels like staring at smudged charcoal
or weeds as they wither and die
or wet cement without a memory.
Something shadows you
like the mountains you dream
of screaming from,
where you’d lose your voice
and break your lungs,
but you’d embrace release,
no matter how much it shreds you,
because you want to feel it.
Sometimes you won’t reach those heights,
so instead you pluck petals from flowers,
tearing and splintering,
thorns slithering beneath skin.
Noise howls past your skull like silence,
and you wonder
how long it will last.
and it is like music.
You wish for the melody to linger.
When it does, you watch the ocean
as the moon reflects its face
on the water—
it looks like blurry stars in a rippling galaxy.
Peace makes you think,
and you think about
cracking open your ribs,
peeling back skin and bones.
Will you find only mangled flesh and darkness?
You find other things,
like roots dancing over your heart,
buried beneath soil and blood,
warmed and fed by your breaths.
You glimpse something close to a garden,
and you hope that soon
flowers will bloom.
And bloom they will.
Yet another poem that was sitting in a file, waiting to be seen.