colosseum

AN:(my teacher challenged us to use a new format and back-to-back figurative language without letting it “overlap,” so that’s what i tried to do here. it was fun to try smth new ^^)

someone somewhere stitched art into the ridges of my spine and told me not to let the ink wash off- but i did,
and when Tennyson dropped by the wayside of my patio, i didn’t have resolve enough to answer the door, let alone lift my head
i was too busy trying to rebuild the colosseum in my mind,
because now it feels like others are rebuilding their temples in three days max while i have to work with
the crumbling foundations of something that turned sharp and brittle at the edges and that echoes in the spaces where a nation used to live with its chest puffed out.

but when that didn’t work, i threw my windows wide open,
and Dickinson settled herself by my windowsill
i pretend not to hear her ask me when i’m going to give the violin in my heart the space to dust itself free of the cobwebs sticking to my ribs
because - oh my gosh - it’s already forgotten all the songs i taught it how to play
and i’m not used to hearing it from outside the pillars of the colosseum.
i invite her in, though -
i let her keep her shoes on because when i tilt my head the muddy footprints her soles left on my welcome mat have some sort of  je ne sais quoi that makes it seem like Mother Nature graced my unworthy soul with her presence
and there’s something poetic in that, even if i don’t have the willpower to write it down.
Dickinson and i sit for a moment in silence, my fingers drumming on the coffee table that has not felt the caress of a pen in days. i open my mouth to offer her tea,
but she just presses a soft notepad into my ink-smeared grasp like i already know what to do with it and says, tell Tennyson i said hello

as my hands close around the paper, i can feel the stitches on my spine being mended thread by thread
and in the back of my mind,
the colosseum awakes to the tune of a violin playing in the distance.