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Over Heated
Woke on the wrong side —
a restless bed,
skin warm like summer sun,
a stomach twisting softly,
aching with quiet longing.
Trying to taste the day —
flavors fall away,
waiting for evening’s slow light
to open the door again.
Sadness lingers —
a gentle ghost inside,
her voice soft in the silence,
a shadow I hold close.
I reach —
to touch the place
where I feel whole,
hold the gentle hand
that sometimes grows tired —
rolling eyes like waves
that soothe the edges of me.
A Beatles song hums —
when I touch you,
I feel happy inside…
Those words wrap me gently,
a warmth I cannot hide,
even when the world feels too bright.
I tell her —
not for the first time —
that holding hands
is the quietest kind of home.
And though she rolls her eyes,
I know she knows —
because I keep telling her.
Copyright ©
Sarah Moncada
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