Alone.
That was how she danced.
Worn feet against silken snow,
A carpet for her to tread on, drifting,
As though she wished for it to grow into a staircase,
A spiraling centipede spine that would reach the heavens,
So she might see him.
Or no, she didn't wish for him.
She didn't want his touch or his words,
Cheap wax and worn letters of scratch ink.
She wanted her soul back,
That pearl in her chest that she gave away,
The seedling of spring she once fostered under her ribs,
Nestled in a satin cushion between her lungs.
She cried,
Beads of diamond and topaz,
A stain against porcelain cheek and peony pink blush.
She cried for the gift she gave away,
The spirit she no longer had,
The naivety she lost.
She longed for an end to her winter,
A sharp line of bone-white chalk along her pages,
A splitting cold that swaddled her,
Making her a lonely, ethereal thing.
Her heart still flows, an ebbing mountain river,
Her waters cutting across valleys and plains,
And even now, she continues to sate the thirst of generations,
Because her heart is too big for her own good,
And through that, she suffers for eternity,
For a warm heart to melt her winter.
YOU ARE READING
Rose, Prose, Poetry
PoesiaExploring topics of love, limerence, grief, and everything in between, this is a collection of 100 poems written over a year. The works both reflect inner emotions and outward connections, attempting to capture the interconnected nature of the worl...
