longing

To feel my body tremble with such a profound sense of longing, my fingertips frigid and withered, clawing through my obscurity. I look up at the sky, and see my own reflection engraved into the stars. Do I smile? Or do I cry? Why do I only feel you with my eyes closed and palms empty? Where there had once been a voice in return, I am now met with a stillness I know all too well. You say that it will pass, that the swelling in my sternum will make sense with time. I only wish to wail: “Oh, but it does! It has always made sense.” Yet, I cannot find the solidity. How do you show another these fences, when all they feel is the delicate flow of the wind? How can I show you that there are claws beneath my skin, that there is a terrible ache coursing through me? Oh, but I speak in languages you do not understand. A wholly truth I have come to know all too well. You are circling within a foreign orbit, and although I claw and gnaw, I know I do not belong. It is not easy to dismiss such misery when time flutters as though it were pages of a book. Years blur into that feeling—you may pray for the next, though it will never come. What does one do when the daylight probes like the one before? What do I do when my days have obscured into one profound sense of longing? God, I am so hungry for something there is no name for. Can I find it under the gravel—perhaps among the trees? There is no magic here. I am such a sick girl—I feel so nauseous of it all—my thirst knows no end.