I am violently empty.
Raging storm. The weather forecast saw it coming and it
barreled through anyway. Wet leaves
squish when you stand on them, but I
always wished that I could hear the autumn crunch from
that golden-crisp brown.
When you see me, the waves ripple, but when
I see the wall of black ink behind you, the waves slosh into my
mouse and nose and I cannot breathe. I cannot see
where I am. I have not seen.
I thought, for a transient moment, that this pain was over.
But to think is not to feel, and that was my
mistake.
Words coarticulate. I squeeze them out like
toothpaste out of a tube that's almost empty. Run in
circles and no, don't say a word. Say nothing. Regret it. Feel.
Tsunamis are not manmade, though they will soon be. This ripple isn't a
toe, tepidly dipped into a glass lake. This is a jagged chunk of an
iceberg, falling off, into the waves, causing a bigger wave. A much bigger wave
that looks beautiful from a distance, but when it closes in, it will be too
late
and we will realize that we should've ran a long, long time ago.
YOU ARE READING
A Touch of Wonder
PoetryA book of poetry filled with thoughts, experiences, and emotions. "As I walk down the slippery street, My face streaming with tears, The sadness can barely be sustained. But you suddenly kiss away my fears, My dear umbrella in the rain."
