My Cardboard Balcony

The Overwhelm by Belinda Roddie I'll set a timer and see how long you hold me until your arms get tired or I start sweating too much and cannot stop the shaking. Beads form across my nose: the warmth is there, but fleeting, and, once felt, it hardly leaves a mark. When wiped away, its shadow dies. Across the water, boats somehow keep floating in the storm. You press your face against the window, the glass shielding you from the rain. I stay rigid on the mattress, knees bent, toes curled like talons, hands hugging my own chest. I cannot feel my own heart beating, but I know the rhythm is, strangely, constant. I do not hear the timer go off. You say you want to put your arms around me again. You want to protect me from the barrage of information streaming from the outside world. Text, code imprinted on my skin like tattoos. Once read, it's remembered - nothing less. I feel a pinch between my shoulders and think I might die sooner than expected. B

Let me weave you a tapestry that has colors you never imagined before. A purple we would not call purple, a blue different from blue. The sunrise on the fabric will warm your room faster than the emerging heat outside. Morning leaves you covered in threads and frayed ends. I'll pick up a needle and stitch you up if you're falling apart. And you are falling apart, my love, at the seams.