Hands

Dec 17

A poem by Rissa Bennett.

The compulsion to count the moments

and need to disbelieve everything as so tumultuous,

but my teardrops ricochet

as I fail to memorize the sun’s dwindling rays.

Rosy blush on my cheeks subsides

with every bit of me that pretends to be alive.

Painted hands seduce celestial lips;

whispered golden tendrils evade my fingertips.

Finite youthfulness I hold too dear;

How long until I can no longer bear

the spiders that crawl, monotonously lurch

to take, and bide your circulated hurt?

Ruthless time seizes, desperately rips away

webs weaved and retold stories, they say.

I tell myself, “one day I’ll see you soon”;

Hopefully I won’t be so painful and blue.

Broken Promises