Grief Written

Words are bitter blackberries in my mouth, Trickling down my throat before settling there where they grow Vines twisting into me and the thorns are pressing against my skin To the point where it Hurts When he touches me. Palms pressed against my skin, Peaches are my checks cradled in your hands. I can feel the ripeness in them when you say something and it makes me laugh. Your thumb pressing into the single dimple in my cheek as my grin is a watermelon rind. My skin is soft, supple, and easy to bruise, I can feel your teeth skimming the surface. I can smell the summers sweat on your breath. Bittersweet.

I believe in lucky pennies. Pennies that appear on pavement, shining. Not when you're looking but when you need them. I often pocket the pennies, or pause to flip them over to fulfill their purpose. A trail of pennies across the pavement brought me to you. Pennies I had placed in cupholders, Tossed into wishing wells, and handed to wanting hands. And suddenly when I looked up from the pavement I realized that you were All the pennies I had picked up and placed in jars and pockets and ashtrays. I no longer have to ask for spare change, Collecting it on corners, Because when you laugh it sounds like coins falling together, and I pocket that sound in my piggy bank heart. And sometimes I push my hands deep in your pockets and you ask what I'm looking for But I've already found it. You ask me if you're loving me the way I need to be loved And to let you know when that changes, and I'm a pillar of pennies, because I'm the luckiest girl in...