By Anne Matanis
I live
on desolate mountains
waiting for the birds to swallow me.
I watch
the clouds float idly by, eager
hands follow
the scent of you
lingers, thoughts of us storm – thunders
my head, the streets
talk of you with such frailty so delicate, the speed
in which I say
I’m sorry
is it fast enough?
if you accept
my millisecond apology
will I finally stop longing
for your hands
that held me,
that cupped my face,
and blew life into my open mouth?
Anne Matanis (she/her) is a 21-year-old writer from the Philippines. She edits poetry and prose for The Cloudscent Journal and Fulminare Review. Her work has been published by Livina Press. She enjoys ice hockey, homemaking, and bears. You can reach her on Twitter: @annematanis
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