344: The Child In Me

I wear white

and study you

in depth and detail:

the shadows

under your eyes,

the cough

in the back of your throat,

the way your shoulders

always slump forward

and your back sags

with years

that have yet to come.

"You're tired," I say

as I weave the dandelions

for your bed

and tuck you in

with tea and dreams

that caress your cheeks and heal

your aching heart.

"Sleep," I say. "I'll be here

when you wake up."

And I mean it,

when I put on the music

your father played in the car

after midnight

and you weep for the summers

that have faded.

"Let's make our own summers,"

I say, "when you're ready."

For now,

I let you sleep

and heal.

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Written by: Katrine Hjulstad

Instagram: @katrinehjulstad

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Publisher's note: All poetry published with Eudaemonia Records has been viewed and commented on by our editors. Ultimately, however, we believe that it is the writer's decision to accept or reject any suggestions made by the editors, and therefore take no responsibility for the final product.