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you say I don’t move mountains like I used to

my fingers aren’t callused

smooth

you leave our bed

with skin unscathed

perhaps

I’ve been trying to carry

myself

       better

but you are unmoved by this

you say I need to dust off my hands

      yet haven’t notice

you no longer leave

footprints in the sand

you chase the sun

when our nights get dark

frankly

I’m not sure

which lens shows us more clearly

but the rose-colored one

clashes with my blues

how can something so fresh and new

leave me feeling used?

somewhere within

my love for you

is

my love for me

with its hands tied

            in a loose knot

screaming in my best friend’s voice

begging me to grab hold of the truth

but holding you

feels so much better

we planned a trip

across a red, yellow& green sea

to a remote aisle

where karats grow

in large stalks

that nephews can run around

and the winds carry the whispers

of sisters who prayed

that your time would come

so I stared at my reflection

believing my face was stained

instead of wiping off the mirror

and after I do

turns out

my face was soiled

not as much as I thought

but at least I can see

where to clean first

and the spots

that don’t come off

well…

perhaps they are like some mountains

best left

unmoved

 

 

Gerren Liles is a Brooklyn Based Writer, Educator, and author of The Road To Damascus.