lila woodard

there’s still an indent,
where the tan fabric used to hang,
and there remains
a tint of greeen, below the pink,
above the orange.
small phantom footsteps 
discovering the pressure points beneath the rug.

i wish i knew you. 

god, i’ve heard so much. 

i don’t know your eye color 

and 

somehow i always feel guilty 

when people ask 

‘remember?’

and i know i was there 

the street lights aren’t bright enough to distill my fear 
(it’s only seven fifty-three p.m.)
     Love,
         a female figure in a buttonless coat.

i feel the fear of missing out 

lying between my ligaments 

they pull against the bed frame

where i am tethered 

my bones vibrate with the wind curling around my curtains 

you were the only one 
who never told me 
i couldn't do something. 
and then you did. 
and told me you hadn't. 
well, 
i have thought you many things,
a liar was not one. 
but 

Pebbles. 

Pebbles were my downfall,

long strides balanced by the grooves in my soles, 

flattened by the pebbles stuck within.