by Emily Long

You were a pen in the hand of an unworthy writer,
Spilling your nonrenewable blood for an untold story, dying as a martyr for a cause you didn’t believe in.
You were a bird chirping on a painted windowsill,
Melodious arias set afloat by the rustling breeze, and yet the window remained closed to you.
You were the arms of a sun,
Reaching for a girl terrified of the hazards of warmth, so she shed your embrace like a dead skin and returned to the familiar pain of cold.
You were the polished ivory keys of a baby grand piano,
Beckoning and begging to be caressed again, your unrequited love amplified by the silent corridors.
You were the playful waves,
Lapping at the toes of passersby, rejected by those who forgot how to feel, let alone feel joy.
You were the snow in the eyelashes, the dusty stuffed bunny, the red balloon amongst the cotton-candy clouds, the voice resonating through the body’s every atom,
And I just didn’t listen.