tug of war
elusive, but alive
ignored, but important
like trying to catch smoke
I feel the heat in my fingertips,
and the softest parts of my skin
and sometimes I am close to warmth.
out of my reach, I mourn
here’s to emotional stability
here’s to personal health
here’s to letting go.
I held on too tight
not onto the smoke, but to everything else.
and I think these are the biggest things I regret
when it’s 4 AM and I’m crouched over a damned lab report
unfinished, of course
and still I have to print it
and I’ll be in misery because
I was completely here, but never once there.
I am chapped lips; the reds of your cheeks
greeted by an extra button in your jacket and a tight scarf
when my eyes close you see summer
between the blinks you can see the leaves change
once a smell tickling the fall nose, now a breath
that shines spring as a flashlight in the dark
summer divorced me, filing papers against me
due to our lack of similarities, but oh, she knows
that my hands do not caress black ice and
I don’t cough with my mouth open
and if I could I would give you chapstick and
kiss away the reds of your cheeks
but for just for a moment let the snow fall
and fill you with a different kind of warmth
Whitney DiMeo is a current undergraduate student at Boston University specializing in neurolinguistics. In addition to being a field linguistics researcher, she pursues poetry as a means of expression. Whitney currently lives in Boston and frequents poetry slams.