The poetry is still there because you still live in the crooks of my heart and sling on my veins with an axe. You did this and I woke up from my grave of flowers and began to think about melting into the fleshy parts of your hips. I woke and you did not listen. You drowned in the slinging of veins. You did not notice.
In February I lied in bed and thought about how I wanted to not miss you. I thought about you kissing that boy and every cell in my body told me to go to bed. I cannot forget when we were younger and you would slip my hair through your nimble fingers, twirling it around until it curled.
I fell asleep after the war. I fell asleep and thought I'd fall asleep for good. I do not love you but I miss you. I wish you could come home.
YOU ARE READING
hibernation: poems by colleen cosette goodman
Poetrypoems I wrote whilst waiting for spring. colleen cosette goodman © 2018
