M. Hank

it's cold

the mornings freeze our words to our lips as we pore

over homework, plastic boxes of brightly dyed sugar cereal

waiting for february. it's gray

we haven't gone out for recess in forever, summer sun

all the things i do not know about love –

the proper ways to hold someone through the storm, what to say

when a snake has shed its rippling skin and silence with it,

last week  

she reached out  

brushing my cheek  

with her soft steady touch  

her whispers filled the air  

gentle

i hear it now.

not a whisper

nor a shout

i hear it now.

the future

a call

distant

melancholy?

i can’t help

but wonder

how much am I leaving behind?

i hear it now.

note: this is not targeted at anyone, it’s just my opinion :)

Writing is my pulse,  
my breath,  
my way of being.  
They don’t own my words,  
my thoughts,  
my voice.  

Why does Ophelia look so calm?

Calm in calamity, peaceful in perishing 

Why does she look so calm?

She died in a fit, she died in anger