long hours like these
on slow afternoons
stretch
like nerves
when you’re carrying a secret
that can’t be shared
with anyone

tears so much warmer
than the skin on my face
dribble
almost as painfully
as hot wax
as if my cheeks were the candles
burning on my altar

nothing tangible
has invited this sadness
into my space
only a picture of an empty desk
with an empty chair
that used to be my son’s
and now he’s too big to sit there
and doesn’t live here
and is gone from where
i can hold him and
say it’s okay
mommy will make it better

10/07/2012

Posted on 04/04/2015
Copyright © 2024 Vivienne Grant