Aubade

my pillow smells of lavender and rosemary as i write

feverishly in the lull of night. i tug on wisps of stray thoughts

hoping to weave them together into something beautiful

rather than barely coherent granules of feeling,

hair-strung and quivering against each other.

it’s mid january and the world still tastes faintly of rebirth

as if my illusions of grandeur are being nurtured

by this in-between stasis. i twirl the split ends of my hair,

pondering the reason why so many words feel stale

before they are even spoken. remaining earth-bound

is difficult when my desires lie amongst the constellations.

maybe i will learn to approach myself with more

tenderness so i can heal the places i’ve ripped,

in frantic attempts to discover the silver-bright universe

inside me. i have hollowed myself over the years

for some sacred, intangible reason i can’t grasp,

though it is pointless to continue scraping the marrow

from my bones when there is little left. how strange it is

that flowers may never grow in those concave parts,

but sometimes bitter, burnt things cannot be salvaged

no matter how hard you try. i still wonder, thought-drunk,

if god loves hungry creatures more. only now i make bandages

from spools of silken reveries, and watch the words glissade

into little glass jars, cloud-fêted tonics for my heart.