THE ECHO IN YOUR FRAME

 

The Echo in Your Frame  

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Unaware, I cradle your ribs,

My fingers threading through the cage of bone,

A fragile lattice pressed between my palms,

Your chest rising and falling against mine—

The drumming beat of my heart thunders,

A frantic pulse hammering beneath my skin,

Pounding loud against the wall of you.

But all my ears catch is an echo,

A faint, hollow reverberation,

Bouncing through the cavern where your heart

Should pulse in answer,

A twin rhythm to mirror mine.

Instead, there’s a cold emptiness,

A yawning void carved in your chest,

A hollow where warmth should bloom,

Where a beat should meet my own—

And it doesn’t,

It never will.  

The loneliness of this knowing seeps in,

A slow frost creeping through my veins,

This awareness of our jagged divide—

How we’re forged from different clay,

Assembled from mismatched parts,

A truth that splinters me silent.

You, sculpted from resilient things—

Sticks snapped from ancient oaks,

Stones smoothed by a river’s relentless grind,

A framework unyielding,

Built to weather storms without a flinch.

And me, pieced from softer threads—

Petals plucked from wilting blooms,

Feathers fallen from a sparrow’s wing,

Tendrils of moss clinging to damp earth—

Gentle, pliant,

Bruised by the lightest touch.

The contrast stings,

A blade I feel but can’t name,

And tears prick my eyes,

Hot and unbidden,

Pooling behind a mask I tilt just so—

A clever sleight,

A distraction to keep you from peering too close,

From asking the questions I’d crumble under.  

Your words fall like stones,

Hard-edged and heavy,

Yes, they break my bones—

Crack the fragile lattice of me,

Splinter the softness I can’t shield—

But they also pacify,

A balm smoothed over the fractures,

Prolonging these moments I cling to,

Granting extensions to my precious time.

Each syllable you toss,

Casual as gravel,

Stalls the clock’s cruel hands—

A pause in the inevitable,

A reprieve I drink like water in a drought.

I linger in the echo of your voice,

The way it fills the hollows,

Momentarily drowning the silence of your chest,

And I let it,

Let it stretch the thread of us,

Even as I feel it fraying,

Even as I know it’s a delay,

Not a cure.  

The night presses close,

A shroud of shadow wrapping us tight,

Your ribs still caught between my fingers—

I trace them,

Each ridge a map of your distance,

Each gap a reminder of what’s missing.

My heart drums on,

A solitary beat echoing back,

Filling the space where yours should rise—

And the loneliness blooms,

A weed choking the soft things I’m made of,

Petals curling inward,

Feathers matted with damp regret.

I wonder if you feel it too,

The cold where our chests meet,

The mismatch of our making—

Or if your sticks and stones

Armor you against the ache I carry,

The tears I blink away

Behind a smile stretched thin.  

I could pull back,

Let go of your frame,

Step away from this hollow dance—

But your words tether me,

Pacifying the cracks,

Prolonging the fall I see coming.

They grant me hours,

Days,

A borrowed stay in your orbit,

Even as they bruise,

Even as they break me further—

Sticks and stones,

Yes, they shatter my bones,

But they also build a fragile bridge,

A span I cross with trembling steps,

Knowing it leads to the inevitable—

A collapse I procrastinate,

A truth I delay,

Clinging to the echo,

To the cold,

To the beauty of holding you,

Even when your heart won’t answer mine.