Atlas.

Not writing for a long time is making me feel like a jigsaw puzzle missing its final piece.

 

Critique, please.

 

 

My favourite body part, shoulders.

Before I was old enough to know
what a ladder was for
I would sit atop my father’s and
gather the stars closer.

Before I laid with pillows
I would lower my head
between that space against your neck
where, in safety, I laughed, and I wept.

Before, they were only bones to hold
Now I pretend, I am Atlas
carrying the heavens
For if the weight of the heavens is a death sentence
You, are the most romantic penance.

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