There’s a boy and girl
playing bezique in the library
where I read Wuthering Heights
or rather,
strum the yellowing paper edges
wishing you near.
If you were,
if I caught your eyes
from across this wooden table,
I’d apologize
for the metal-plated skin
that hid
my delicate heart.
The one that purples
at your every misstep
and bleeds,
fearing neglect.
Don’t say she’s beautiful
and don’t close your eyes.
You could pull the marrow
from your bones
to save my life,
but these are the words
I will remember.
The girl slams down a card.
Wiping the fog from the glass,
she peers into the storm outside.
I watch the way
the boy watches her
and my cheeks burn.
If you were here,
I wouldn’t let you watch me like that.
I’d hide my face
between the pages of my book
to disguise
that I’m on the brink of bursting
into rain.
I’d apologize because
you wanted a woman,
not a weathervane.
Sevyn Michaela-Rose Waters
Poetry
BFA Writing 2023
Atlanta, Georgia
