The sky, that
deep, sighing gray.
weather made no difference,
when our lives shone like late June.
Lightbulb sun, liquid energy.
Plotting my hours: Dickensian days,
distracting myself from that ticking clock,
the calendar, devoid of the plans we’d made.
Silver lining—my novel is growing like weeds.
as a bath,
a wool blanket,
in which I can hide.
My day? Quiet. And yours?
It’s the small talk I miss most.
And the laughter. Serious now,
arrested by my own reflection.
Who’s this woman? Does she never sparkle?
So, I’m sending you a smile—the one I wore
when we first met—lest my frozen lips forget how.
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Frances Benjamin Johnston