play, pause, replay

somewhere, a nest is lined with what i lost

there's a small hole the size of a dime

in my heart. perhaps, smaller. perhaps, the size

of the space where a button used to be.

it isn't much; just enough for a life to fit in

and breathe barely. instead, light slips in 

sideways and stays huddled.

yesterday, a bird pulled a thread from the porch chair.

and took it somewhere i couldn't follow.

i told myself it would become a warm nest, as small

as a moth's quiet hunger. but who can say?

my neighbor's cat sits on the windowsill, facing

our house, and tilts its head at me.

the pink of the sky falls on the white walls,

trees lean in toward each other to hush,

passersby walk across chowringhee road, the many

gaps in the crowd filled with exhaled apologies

and decayed sighs, remnants of swallowed sorrow

woven through laundry lines. they're the size of 

a thumbprint on a window, as small as a quiet leaving.

i press my own hand against the glass 

but the fit is never quite right.

my mother once taught me how to breathe through ache.

the ache of things that were. the ache of silence.

the ache of a half-healed ache. everything.

in through the nose, out through the mouth.

i try it again today, as i touch the thumbprint

the size of an ache left on the glass. i breathe out

whatever i can bear to lose.

still, the ache stays.

still, i know the hole stays open,

small as a wish, wide enough for the weather.