I watch his muscles
flex with each turn
of the screwdriver.
He's fixing the lock
on the window by the fire escape,
broken since I moved in.
My heart melts.
Not because he's fixing it,
but because I know
he wants me safe.
I never learned the rules about meter or metaphor, or what not to say out loud. I just write what lives inside me: the bruises, the blossoms...
No comments:
Post a Comment