Yearning

By Chandra Martin
she knew, even then,
that life was supposed to feel different

she didn’t know what “different” looked like yet—
only that something in her
kept reaching

hands outstretched
in the dark

grasping at edges,
at air,
at anything that might close
around her fingers
and hold

she pressed herself
into moments,
into people,
into the hollow spaces
between words—

listening
for an echo
that sounded like her name

wanting—
not gently,
never gently—

but with a hunger
that scraped her ribs clean

to be seen
and not passed through

to be heard
and not softened
into silence

to be felt
without disappearing

to be known
by something
that did not let go

she could feel it still—
the outline of it—

not absence,
not quite

but the shape
of something missing
pressing back
against her
from the inside

and then—

something closes
around her hand

not tight,
not enough to hurt

just there

a voice,
quiet,
as if it had always been waiting—

are you okay