Poetry

I traveled on the cobblestone, 

This sweet and utter scent, 

It teases me with memories, 

Of often younger drenched. 

Dear Santa, 

I haven't quite proposed,  

For many moons I've prayed to you, 

Yet hurts to leave me lone. 

When you lose your art

you cry.

your music,

your drawings, your poems

gone.

there goes happiness.

there goes memories.

there goes progress;

and problems.

there she goes.

I was on a plane

I don't know

the rest.

I don’t like my name

not this one, the one I stole

from a great grandmother

I never met

the one I stole from

an Irish goddess

I do not write happy things.

Today I will.

Today I will breathe

ignore the sick feeling growing

in the back of my throat.

Today I will drink water

feel it burn the raw throat

I can’t leave

How could I?

I love how my nose freezes off when I walk outside in winter

How when I go out in the spring, I sink in the mud up to my thighs

there’s this gaping hole

            in my heart

yet they never noticed i was

there are all the things I could do with three minutes alone in my room

I have an essay to write and Hebrew to study

I have things to look up and notifications to check

my heart is locked,

and i'm keeping it for you. 

the chain wrapped around it

still remains from the last time

it shattered. 

i build up my mountains,

and my defenses in my mind.

At school we draw in the margins of our notebook paper

and toy with the idea of moving to Australia. 

We look up the latest news in between classes, knowing that

the teachers will think we're addicted to our phones.

I rest on

The stiff wooden bench

With a view of the lake.

I scroll on my phone,

Oblivious.

I then look to the heavens,

But see little there,

Just endless ribbons of cloud

Strung over blue.