Happy tears in my friend’s voice
over the phone, and, my God,
the earth and my soul both swell
in the relief of a rainfall, just
how long were we holding our breath,
anyway, feels so goddamn
good to rinse off.
The winter was dark and
was warm, my body bruised and
aching on the living room floor,
careful stretch, balancing act
between challenging and loving
this self, left the psych ward
in January and sobbed on
the train, please let there be
no funeral in March.
You paint my wrist pink and
blue, on a couch eight hundred miles
from the city, and we don’t say
it’s a miracle, but it is,
you and me, here, still
somehow a soft landing spot
for one another, eight hundred miles
later, still here.
I still see light in the sky at six,
and I exhale my relief, another
dark chapter behind me, and
I remember the glow that kept me
afloat, friends on couches and
phone calls for the bleak walks
home, and everything changes
but this heart stays the same,
tender, wanting, bruised, and bold,
and the light hangs on a bit longer.
michael king 