145: Catch You When You Fall

You hobble by on a broken leg,

splintered,

bandaged, and covered

with a trouser leg, and hope

that no one notice.

Once out of sight you find

the nearest wall and lean

all your weight and more

against it, exhaling

through gritted teeth as sweat

clings to your eyelashes and drips

into your eyes.

Your good leg trembles, blistered

at the heel and toes

from carrying the weight

of your whole world and yet,

when she rounds the corner,

the memory of carnations and foreign places

with beaches and almond trees and wild lavender

heralding her arrival, you stand

and wipe your face and turn, a lighted

cigarette in your hand and a costume of cold

nonchalance draping

your body,

like a praetor’s purple robes.

She approaches, her smile thawing

the brick-stone walls, and the smoke

catches in your throat and burns and you nod and cling

to the robes and cigarette while the smoke rages

in your chest until you drop

the cigarette and cough and cough and crumble

and she kneels and kisses your forehead and cradles you

in her world of silent warmth and whispers,

“I will catch you when you fall.”

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Written by: Katrine Hjulstad

Instagram: @katrinehjulstad

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Publisher's note: Please note that all poetry published with Eudaemonia Records has been seen by our editors, and that the editors have suggested revisions where they see fit, but we believe that it is ultimately the writer's decision to accept or reject any suggestions and take no responsibility for which suggestions they accept or reject.