to my hands
you trace smiles and promises
of weekends spent, climbing
dreamcatchers embedded in walls
labelled forgiveness and hope.
i stand to one side, giving what
semblance of home still resides
in my patchwork pavement
this is all poetry and desire and the call
to roost in trees, oblivious and carefree
making you spin and blaze and
furrow your shoulders
as if this was your one and only chance
to relieve atlas of his burden.
we dream of forgetting loss, of praying to comets,
not gods. they'll at least come visit us in the skies
our necks craning for that split second it takes
to make a wish, to hear flutes and sparrows
and curtained auroras coming to rest
like haloes above our heads.
we are no angels. we smirk and snicker at gossip
our ears should never have pricked up to hear.
we are tears drying. we scrape for whatever reason
to make these days go faster or slower, to end
in joyful sighs.
to my hands, you trace sorrow in silence.
you make me dream, you show me hope
you tell me there is room