re-played; a routine
And so it begins again.
In the thoroughly daunting dark of night,
clouds weep to the melody
of my own unsteady breathing.
A trembling hand reaches out —
the same one that sought for glory,
for dazzling neon lights,
for the stars they could never attain,
for the phantom love that was never there
—and it touches the damp spot
on the unrecognisable countenance
I could only regard uneasily as my own.
My body is not my own,
to it, my mother’s tongue attached;
its sharpness and wit in every
curl, taste and pierce,
and my father’s eyes of
passion ablaze, undying loyalty; headstrong.
My muscles move to a different beat,
contracting to carry the burden
of my grandmother’s “Study hard, girl.”;
relaxing to fit my aunt’s compelling stories
of success and failure and the in-betweens.
My mind speaks a million tongues
and yet cannot comprehend more than two.
My feet, they walk a steady route,
but they find no pathway fit.
I believe I’m losing my balance,
but I do speculate that I have nowhere to fall into.
The dusk settles once more,
