Pigments curling down your wrist as you paint your hands again,
planets you dreamed up drawn on your wrist in quickly fading ink.
These days, my dear,
these are your good days.
Cold fingers in a hoodie much too large,
listening to slow songs and holding out your arms in front of you.
Colored pencils sprawled on your worktable,
ink overflowing in a well right next to them.
Poems on dark nights and staring at the ceiling until the sun rises,
bleak thoughts and piano notes in your head.
Pretty patterns on walls and your notebook and your fingers,
silent, contemplative days.
These are your good days, my dear,
cherish every single one of them.
YOU ARE READING
the city
Poetryand no matter how much you water scorched grass and withering weeds, you will never make a garden re-grow -M.R c.2016
