Being mortal is a fitful thing.
I chafe at the bit. Dross fills
my mattress when I hear
your trouble it mirrors back
into mine. This is baroque
or what I meant when once
I said you were.
The others are fiction today,
pages I turn leaf by leaf. But not
you. Your heart thrums across
the sharp wire. I hear it sing.
I am covered in the palest reds
of early spring. I send you green,
the first faint whisper of it.
A lullaby.

Zoey Brookshire