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Loose Change
May 8, 2013
I used to think I was an individual,
but my fingertips are the same yellow
as the woman with the broken voicebox,
and the loneliness splayed across my legs
is a map of the highways
that hundreds have already traversed,
even the alcohol-inflated kisses lay stale
in a house that isn't mine.
But when you speak into my bones
and I become the jingle of the loose change in your pocket,
I am the only one breathing.
Of this I am sure.
© Xiao H., Naperville, IL
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