"i'm sad," you said.
"you have no right to be," i said.
"i do. i have every right to be
sad
and every right to
every emotion because what do humans
truly own?
nothing besides what paints our skin
and fills our skeletons."
"you are not sad," i insist,
attempting to make you
understand.
to burrow my words
into your cold skin.
they shatter,
they shatter into your voice saying,
"i am sad. i am allowed
to be
sad."
i stare into your eyes,
familiar,
like a song whose words
melt into the wind before i can catch
the melody.
i don't understand,
throwing words at you in desperation,
but "you are not sad"
dissolves into meaningless syllables
like wilting roses
on a table in
an abandoned funeral home,
dusty petals
outlined by the dying sun,
suspended.
you stop me.
"look again," you say, "look hard."
i try.
i stare until the roses
disintegrate
and i see that your
cold skin
was glass
and your eyes like the song
were my own,
staring back at me.
"you are sad," i say.
"and you have every right to be," i say back.
YOU ARE READING
truce » poetry
Poetry❝as if.❞ ⤷in which this isn't poetry but leftover sadness. [poetry] {completed} (#135 in poetry 12/27/17)
