Young Writers Society

i am still in the act of promising
something of myself to you:

an unconscious pact or burden
or lie i have told too many times

-

i am etching your name into the skin
of my palm, pressing it to my neck,

cupping it over my ear, pushing it into
gravitational space under my sternum

promising something of myself
when no one is around to hear me.

it is easy to write about
the hollow parts of your body:

the romance of open hands
or a wet mouth,
the delicacy of a boned,
notched willow-neck,

the aching that began quite young,
has hurt you as easily
as a breath, has pulled you
in and out of yourself --

it is easy to write about things
that don't matter, the lost
moments between wakefulness and sleep,
the lights going out, how the dark
climbs in, presses its cheek against your chest:

these things do not last, are
impermanent in nature;
when the lights go out
they do not leave anything
other than memory,
a missing part of your body
that you hope will return