Everything Before and After

Gentle fingertips

caress the piano

of my ribs,

and she reminds me

to eat something hearty

this winter

when it’s easier

to hide my nothingness

beneath knitted sweaters

and sleepless

nights spent longing

for something heavy.

Bones creak

when I run, so I don’t.

I’m tired of dreaming

but too drowsy to wake.

My body is the frame

of a building

long forgotten, and

the carpenters are away.

Some days,

wilting is like breathing,

but she swears

I’ll get better with water

and something earthy

in this belly

mostly occupied

by moths.

Often,

I question her mastery

of thriving

like sunflowers,

times beyond the bleak,

or nights of undisturbed slumber.

“I am everything

before and after,” she whispers,

fingers tracing

the shaded depressions

of my ribcage

where strength had perished

this autumn and last.

“I am now,” I cry

through labored lungs,

fueled not by

skin and bones,

muscle or lack thereof

but the bittersweet memory

of being her.

“So was I,” she sighs,

and, together,

we clamber

through the frigid window,

bare our shoulders

where velvety wings grow,

and flutter toward

the forgiving

moonlight.