When I was young
I would flex my heart.
We would compete, match the depth and
range of the emotions we contain,
our grand capacities to live and love
and live again.
With age, the muscle has waned,
grown all out of shape.
In my atrophy,
every small affection
finds me aching the following day.
I enclose now little but taciturn distance,
and though these pains never
even break through the skin,
I am left racing,
gasping for air.
No comments:
Post a Comment