A trickle of smoke,
A lock of ashen hair -
To breathe her in
Is spiritual.
She caresses my body,
Gentle hands
Smoothing over the cracks
That appeared
When I began to crumble
Under life's pressures.
She doesn't say anything;
There's no need,
For she guides my weary heart
Back to its youthful ways.
I feel it beat for what feels like
The first time.
I feel it beat, and then I feel
Everything;
All of the things that I've
Buried over the years,
The guilt of the lies,
And the ghosts of the parts of myself
That I felt I had to leave behind.
She smiled. There was nothing I could say
That she didn't already know,
But there were many things
That I didn't know,
For when I reached
To take her hand,
My fingers passed straight through.
YOU ARE READING
Refraction.
PoetrySo many aspects, colours and themes make up our experiences. Truly, is anything entirely good or entirely bad? Upon weighing up the positives and negatives of the past, do we not admit that even tragedy is- in a twisted sort of way- advantageous? O...
