On the cliff of his palm

I stood on the cliff of his palm,
My feet drowning in its ice,
Begging him to save me
From that dreadful cold,
But my voice he could not hear.
 
He was there, seemingly close,
But his heart was miles away;
His eyes were looking at me,
But they could not see
Through my tearing eyelids;
His ears were hearing my voice,
But they did not distinguish
My stuttering words;
His fingers were brushing my skin,
But they could not feel
My wounds and scars.
 
And I started wondering
In what language should I speak
What gestures should I do
What glances should I give
For him to get to me?
 
He was close, but it was an illusion,
For he had me in the palm of his hand,
Shivering; but he thought I was dancing,
Screaming; but he thought I was singing,
Crying; but he thought I was laughing,
Tearing; but he thought I was happy.
 
Who was the one to blame?
I wish I knew.
But I was there, teeth chattering,
Desperately waving my hands
For a sun that would not come up,
For a fire that would not light up.

Ever since I was a little girl, writing has been my passion and my escape. I wanted a platform where this small voice - that usually dares only be heard by the notebook in the corner of my room - can reach out to the world. I have always been fascinated by this ability we have to turn a transient thought or feeling into something that could last forever and that could be communicated to any other member of our species who would stumble upon it. After all, we're one and the same, aren't we? Our hopes, dreams, fears, pain, joy are what make us who we are. This page is for you out there reading it, so I invite you to delve into this notebook as if it were your own. Welcome to my notebook. Many thanks to the creator of this page who made my dream come true.

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