Tripping on the Floor

Your scarf was on the floor,
waiting for your head.
Your ears were restless,
waiting for a sound to come again.

How dreary, thoughts of socks and paranoid eyes.
You thought of your face,
then mouthed the words to a song.
You thought you were alone.

Hunched over your knees with your head on the scarf,
you tried not to move.
Someone out there will love the way you howl in the cold.
Someone will study your eyes and noises
as you burn with a fever.
They will drape their hair over your skin and smile.

You held your breath in ecstasy, waiting,
as the phone came crashing to the floor,
ringing once with its last words.
Upon the window, the rain nodded off.
How graceful it is in its exhaustion.

A tired voice once read, pitter-patter on the pane.
So long, pitter-patter on the pane.
So long ago, you were afraid of death and painted faces.
You were blond and wore red socks in the rain.
You cried until dizzy with self-pity.

You were tingling all over, waiting in an accident,
grinning behind the ruin of your little world.
Now you were tripping on the floor.
Your socks were gray.

Your hands melted out of reverence for the buried few.
Hail Mary, hello, how are you?
Deeply, I breathe thine roses.
Deeply, I dove for the moon,
only to miss everything.