CAITLIN L. GOLFIS
She lies down
with an ease she hasn't felt in a while.
She breathes.
Achy joints are overshadowed by the glittering of shapes above her.
A prancing dog reminds her of a place she can't quite recall;
a furred best friend she can no longer name.
The wind twitches, and it blurs,
now an odd shape reminiscent of a girl.
Her heart burns, an ache from deep within.
She almost speaks, almost says
something
Her mouth moves, and words rest on the precipice of her tongue,
a garbled mess, the shapes relate.
It shifts before she can recall:
was it a woman? A boy?
A doll she holds tight in her hand,
unchanging, but unfeeling,
cold porcelain, but at least within reach.
Above her, those shapes reflect the warmth of the stars,
but she can no longer lift a weary hand to reach out.
So, she stays dormant, watching as those shapes pass her by.
She makes out kind smiles.
She strains, she mirrors,
moving farther from her grasp.
And when she rests her eyes,
she'll smile as shapes form pictures of her youth,
hands reaching out to hold her own.
She likes this dream.
Memories somewhere deep, high in a sky that she can't reach.
But weather changes, she knows that.
While waiting for clear skies again,
she stays lying there…
On hand-sewn, patterned cotton, head rested on my arm,
the breeze sparks to life as I breathe,
dancing across my face,
carrying my breaths to someplace I can't reach.
I mourn the warmth as the snow gently dusts my face,
thunder rumbling threateningly above as the seasons change.
Still, I stay there, lying dormant and still.
Waiting.
Waiting
for them to form something I might know,
for them to not change shape when I can't help but blink.
Waiting
for when soft colours collide, painting my clouds with gentle light.
I wonder, do they ever look back down at me,
try to make shapes from my small form?
They don't know
I'm taller than I used to be.
And my clouds look nothing like I remember,
but I still see those old shapes clearly.
Their colour has changed, their shape and size,
but it's made up of the same things it always was, right?
As a child I would swear they'd whisper stories to me,
tales of a time when only the sun would gleam.
And I may vaguely recall a touch as soft as the cloud itself,
but the fog has to lift eventually, I know that.
So, I stare at them from a distance,
keep them company, a steady presence, as they cannot help
but change.
I keep lying
there, waiting for them to come closer, a silent hand to hold.
I watch as the wind carries the last tendrils away, and with it,
that old whispered farewell.
There were clear skies again, nothing to obstruct my view.
But a plain blue sky was nothing much to look at.
I had always much preferred making shapes out of the clouds,
even if they had long ago blurred too much
for them to see me back.
Caitlin L. Golfis is an author currently working on her debut fantasy novel, with a penchant for writing poetry in her spare time. She adores her animals more than life, has far too many trinkets on her bookshelf, and writes her best pieces on the people she loves the most.
