by Shana Huang
My breath grieves the veneer of
Love lost in shattered limbs that lay beyond the
Oakwood, buried beneath wildflowers that reach for the
Stars each night as another year passes by.
Shifting through stone, my fingers are cold and
Formless, seeking out a moment as they trace splinters of
Broken glass, searching for a time when memory was
Reality, before the last whispers of a story were written.
I see him in my waking dreams, his warmth
Radiating, soft lips saying: nothing.
I exist in this state of being— here and not
Here. I reach for his dimples, that soft smile that was
Mine, but my hands can only grasp images of the
Past, distant echoes of happiness I once had.
I am sorry. My self is not mine.
I want to be whole again, but that is impossible.
Was I ever? I do not know.
Endless questions I’ll never find answers to linger in my
Empty heart. For now, I am content with dreaming.
You don’t have to forgive me, but know that I am sorry.
