Small Truths, You Said
We never have enough of them.
Open your palm, hold this one.
See how fragile it is?
Even your breath could kill it.
The light on the water
drew back, the tide came in.
Your voice was a litany of shadows.
I felt steeped in that voice,
thrumming at each syllable.
How was I to know that your truths
were not meant to grow?
They bloomed quietly in my hand.
You never asked for them back, and I—
I held my breath as long as I could.
First printed in Offshoots 14: Writing from Geneva, Fall 2017 (print edition only)