04: February 2015 #08 - Uninhabited Spaces
Authored by Joyce Nancy
by Joyce Nancy
Winter trees reach into the blank sky like the fingertips of ballerinas, poised and still. I have ached for you that way in many moments desolate and desperate, open-armed and bare. I have wasted days in silence waiting for a phone call. I have erased myself to make room for you inside me. Like a broken down house of water-logged wood I have feigned accommodations. The restless earth resists me. My heart is haggard and hollow. I have called myself a home. I have been a gracious liar. The steps to my front porch are empty. I pretend I have built them to receive you, that the space you could fill exists only when you arrive, broken and tired, needing something hard and cold and dirty. It is not enough to be quietly recollected like a statue kept in a dusty corner. Behind your eyes my colors fade in and out. The image shifts when you try to remember. My limbs are still where you left them but the things I want you to come back for are not here. They never were. I was only ever wavering and unsteady. I had nothing to give.