~Esther Mitchell, 2005~
I miss the sound of my own voice,
How you coaxed it from my throat,
My lips the fountain you drank from,
Long before our lips ever met.
I miss the foundation beneath my feet,
Of things in which I could trust,
When I didn’t flinch from the sound of screaming engines,
Before I began to tense when my feet left the ground.
I miss the cradle of your love,
Wrapped like a warm shawl around my body,
Arms that demanded nothing,
Asked only what more you could give.
I miss the sway of our bodies,
The breeze of gentle wind through limbs,
Ever moving to a song to which we knew every word,
And I knew what it meant to be clean.
I miss my home,
Kissing the sky with wings of steel,
Hearts wrapped in promises we meant to be,
Never once aware of the ground toward which we fell.
I miss my heart,
That fragile, wilting flower,
The rose you held cupped within your palms,
As your boots crossed dark seas of asphalt,
That still gags me with its smell.
Burning supernova in my eyes,
Is not beauty, is not awe,
It is the foundation,
Cracking beneath my feet,
The cradle as it drops,
A shawl fluttering at my feet,
It is a song to which I’ve lost the tune,
And I no longer know how it feels to be clean.
It is a home burned to the ground,
A promise turned to ashes in my eyes,
A volcano spreading ash,
Looks a lot like snow,
Until it burns your skin,
And the lava starts to flow.
And I miss the sound of my own voice,
Trapped in the feathers of fallen angels,
A prisoner behind my eyes,
Telling myself not to let them see me cry.
But still, I miss the sound of my own voice,
Because when I speak,
I can still hear you listening.