Climb-baby paintings

Nobody saves me quite like you –

quite like you do
when you cry

with the heart that flakes
and crumbles
like a secret being torched.

And I used to want to speak like you,

gently,

like fresh-folded smoke escaping from a flue,

climbing
to a thing
nobody else knew I could build.

I used to want to hide with you,

painting a face for closets
and trees
and cushion forts
and curtain moss
and walk-weary raindrops
and pebbles
and pendants made out of shell
and gentle twigs
that bounce like frogs beneath your heels

and castle bloodstone
sobbing in
foam

and rivers that never quite took you back home.

I used to sit in trees for you,

watching your keys
unlock me,
word by word.

I’d curl my leg around your hand,
tight enough to make an introduction,

capture your name
and carry it home,
in spite of the distance between us.

I’d curl my leg
and start to climb –

over the engines to the sky.

I’d climb over stars to see you cry.

I’d curl my leg around your hand,
let you
lift me like a crane,
high
over guarded walls and bridges;
high over puddles,
my rain and yours.

I’d scrape my thighs
on
lightning
and barbed wire,

sweating my stories into closets
and trees
and cushion forts
and curtain moss
and walk-weary raindrops
and pebbles
and pendants made out of shell
and gentle twigs
that bounce like frogs beneath your heels

and castle bloodstone
sobbing in
foam

and rivers that never quite took you back home.

But nobody saved me quite like you.

Nobody held me in towers and steel,

bled out
the hurtings
I just couldn’t cry;

nobody’s fingers
danced like yours,
like something primeval
pirouetting
down the steps of my spine –

a temple
crumbling from the inside out.

I don’t even know if you’re really still here –

any more than I am.

But every ridge still feels like you,
resting your heart
on my shoulder,

letting me curl my leg around you

and lifting me to the lingering hope of unfettered sky.

Published by Woodsy

I am so many little things, so many tiny words, woven here between those tales I think perhaps I need to tell... between those nightlights on the shore. I am a downpour, caught in myself... barely a heartbeat from running away.

9 thoughts on “Climb-baby paintings

  1. This is so touching and you can feel the yearning in every line. So lovely.

    “and pendants made out of shell
    and gentle twigs
    that bounce like frogs beneath your heels”

    Beautifully written. ❤️🤗 love, Joni

    Liked by 3 people

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