Golden flame leaves against piercing blue sky
Through the window I stare
From my bed.
I label colors, objects.
I label with language. Language which has no emotion.
I stare through my window for hours
As lifetimes pass me by.
157,680,000 seconds
or minutes?
Through my veiling shroud I cannot read the clock or feel the weather that would hit my face if I mustered strength enough to throw open the window as I would’ve done six months ago.
(Thrown open the window to feel the
joy of sunshine, the jubilation of wind
on cool skin, the serene content of
sapphire sky.)
I lay still.
I label.
tree
yellow
sun
sky
My language has no emotion. My language has no actions.
My words have shapes, but I cannot touch them.
They have textures that I cannot feel.
(I recall a time when yellow sun
took the form of arms wrapping
around skin. The texture is joy,
belonging, hope, content.)
My language is words is perception as seen through a screen
through a screen
through a screen
Muted distortion.
Though just yesterday my sorrowful thoughts jabbed a dozen dull needles into my stomach.
Jab is action.
Sorrowful is emotion.
Today
bed
blanket
window
branch
twig
roof
gutter
I don’t know if I ever experienced a day lived absently looking through my window like a few of the days I lived this fall. I am a couple months past these days now. I wrote this looking back on the most poignant day, the height of the worst you could say. If you have these days now, I feel you.
My Swelling Heart 