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loss by your own hand
it's 12 am and i cant breathe
my mind, flashing through images and moments and pockets of space and time
a restless energy
a redemptive ache
as i scream the name of a distant god
its 1 am and the silence is so loud
at the computer, i take my first deep breath
the world is quiet tonight
unlike my sweaty palms racing heart (i dialed your number, my hand slipped)
'why?' i reach a clammy hand out
feeling at an endless darkness
its 2 am and my brain is hammering against my skull
like a prisoner begging for release
again i reach
for a nonexistent hand
can i dial jesus? (i think id like his number on speed dial)
its 3 am and i dont know if i can make it until 4
i lay now, praying for the reprieve of sleep
my fingers reach up
clawing at my eyes
tugging at my hair
grasping at the small
cross gifted to me by
someone long lost
i stared at your number 'till 5 am
'till the sun peeked his head out
as if a reminder that life continues on (though i miss the stillness of night)
i miss your hand in mine
i cried out to any who'd listen
grasping at straws, brokering deals with the spiders on my wall
please come home
the pastor told me itd never happen
but i called your mum
and she said you still lived on in me
its 6 am now
and id like for you to stop living in me and just- just hold me
please?
Copyright ©
Em Henderson
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