Tight lung feels
you wonder how the breath
keeps swinging
deep through tissue/
muscle.
Bronchioles littered with the ash of
your hazy fingertips.
You never used to smoke in front of me.
But your lungs are your own
and my brows steeped in criticism,
not of your bad habits
but of your silence
because wordlessness leads us
confused.
No communication just
suggestion and the like.
As the ice melts
so will our patience.
We’re different people in the spring.
There are no longer snow-banks keeping us all
walled in.
No comments:
Post a Comment