andantecantible
He feels the weakness in his legs, the softness of jelly, the quivering of knees, uncontrollable, like clockwork; like a hidden, awakening instinct. A dull ache in his chest rings hollow. A clutch to his dizzying head. Is this what it means to feel, he wonders? Not just imagining a feeling, vociferating its existence or the probability of its existence, but truly perceiving it? The tactile quality of this, this feeling (still new, and he dare not wonder its name), this malaise...where did it come from?
It's been a while since I last thought of you -
back then your smile was sunlight, your laughter kept me warm.
Something about today made me remember.
Now there's ringing in my ears, that memory, a summer song.
We are knee-deep in Winter, the white of
December still clawing at us, menacing,
persistent in running us ragged.
It would be better for our crackling hands,
droopy eyelids, and weathered bodies
if Winter were like lightning - terrible, yet
over in the blink of an eye.