Remnants




Remnants

Smoke clings to my skin. The
sky is lilac. You comment on
the last time we heard birdsong.
It was in the glass room. We
remember our reflections for a
few seconds. Then we self-
shatter and sweep the little
pieces away. Magnolia petals.
Breakfast in the afternoon,
still shaking from the event.
The previous.
It’s how we often spend our
present these days. Tearing
the past. Shredding ribbons.
Everything tastes like off-brand
oatmeal. The bland kind.
Plain. The gritty truth.

The wall is where we’ll hang
it. The empty space in the
living room where only the
dead spend time. We’re still
in our beds, somewhere,
aren’t we? Separate and breaking,
like the dawn after the come-down.

I am still experiencing withdrawal
from you. My gums hold
on to your buzz saw. Your
suffering becomes an excruciating
sound and it’s mine now.
You’re light now. You’re shadow.
You’re sustaining. I’m the
night sky. Fading. I inhale
you. Distant lavender fields.

(October 2017)
Photo by Jill Burrow from Pexels

Note: #OctPoWriMo is coming up. I’m going to try to write a poem each day for October. (Key word: try.) Anyone else participating?





Published by Jennifer Patino

Poet.

17 thoughts on “Remnants

  1. I love this poem. It’s so strong and ends perfectly. There are far too many lines to quote. This is exquisite, Jennifer.

    Oh, and I only participate in Poetry writing month for April, but I can’t wait to see what you share if you participate.

    Liked by 1 person

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