Sewing

I remember fragile hands leading kissed thread through the eye of a needle. She taught me how to sew. I remember her never eating at the kitchen table, she preferred a plastic plate to eat every single meal on, I remember her shuffling across the carpet apologizing for passing the TV. I want to remember everything she ever meant to me, my grandmother was amazing. She would sit in her chair and just think about her life. And you feared the phone’s ring because it might bring someone for her to talk to for two hours. The person on the other line deserved her time because they had simply called.

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Short Happy Poem: Light

Eight minutes and twenty seconds while the earth beckons for light. Though it feels like an instant. The heat radiates like peace, a sudden calm. The light removes the plight of the night. Blinding me from hate and strife. As I see it climbing towards me, approach from afar  I welcome that brilliant star. And with each sunset I am left with a picture that has become a fixture in my mind, the warmth of your smile.

Wings

I trace my fingers across wings as fragile as a butterfly’s. These are mine. They shoot forth from a back that twists too much. A fingertip is all use for I might crush. There is much beauty to touch. They let her fly into my dreams. They carry her through life, these fragile wings. They flutter when she sings along to the radio as graceful as a bell rings. She knows all the words and even though I have heard every line a million times like a hour chimes I still find the wonder in it all. This rush of wings drives my hand to write. I fight for each flutter, each flap, til I have nothing left. I own only the love that she has given to me. But I own these wings that others can’t see.

 

Image source: Dreamweaver69 

Soft

The golden pencil sat shaking on pale lips, this was where it was meant to sit. There is peace in the curve of her face. Every freckle, every dip, every bit. She looks up at me. My eyes affixed.

“What?” she asks softer than silk.

I wear my best smirk, trying to work love into several muscles actions. “Nothing,” I assure in my voice too high. 

I creep my fingers like thick spider legs to her hand. Those eyes so sweet when they light up bright, the edges of her mouth drawn tight. “I love you.”

I give my needed response. There is no joke, no amount of silence, no fake kindness, that could match that statement made from pale lips so soft other than, “I love you too.” For I do.

How could I ever think to die before my time? When I pass, much older, more in love with her, I want to have her soft hand gripped in mine.