Memory

I remember the way that a smile used to feel. Not on my face, but in my in my chest.

In my throat.

The tightening that accompanies childlike elation, it choked me until I finally gasped with laughter, and inhaled the warmth of joy.

I remember the way that it felt to cry.

My long dried eyes have aged into jars that hold my tears tight like a consoling mothers arms. Or fireflies.

My face stays calm, and I sigh.

The tightening that I felt in my chest and throat mirrored happiness until I finally gasped in a sob, and inhaled the dampness from my pillow.

I remember fear.

It felt so real to quiver and squeeze with my hands around my knees, sucking and biting down in the inside on my cheek. The expectation of a terrible thing, quenched by the relief of incorrect prophesies.

The tightening in my chest and throat mirrored sadness until I finally gasped and caught my baited breath in relief.

I feel it all again, after so long.

After so many numb days. I feel it in my chest, and throat. It will mirror my innocence, until I never gasp again.