Swinging between them both, their big hands engulfing
my pudgy little ones.
underneath the rainbow tunnel, holding
she is still radiant. not radiant still.
of paper, removing the bow, flinging
off the box top—I robbed
Here’s where to palpate the point
Of maximal impulse, a space two fingers by one finger wide:
It pulses at the fifth intercostal space,
At the midclavicular line to the left of the sternum.
It’s not so bad. At night, sleeping in this space,
Indentations of you long gone. The wall is further away,
I don’t cry into paint anymore. It’s funny how loneliness works,
How my eyes open against dark is less scary since you’ve left.
I want to be a published poet. I live in the San Francisco Bay area and attend college in Boston, Massachusetts, where I study English and Nursing. I have been published in Stylus, a literary publication at my school.
I'd be delighted if you took some time to read my work. I welcome criticism and thoughts, I find it to be very helpful and nec ...