Whirlwind by Tyla Merrill

I am a mime.
Burning fingers pressed
against frozen air.
Fingerprints engraved on the whirl
of wind that guards your heart,
hides your heart,
traps your heart in the eye
of the storm. Snatches
wisps of meaning
with intrusive fingers.
Promises bits of something better…
promises unfulfilled.

I draw closer.

Laughing, taunting, stealing
the breath from my lungs.
Worn lungs,
searching for air,
gasping for words,
for some part of myself
to launch into the wind
as if it could reach you.

As if the storm would let it reach you.

I am a mime.
Following the rhythm
of your still-beating heart.
Beating, throbbing slowly…
slowly, but not softly.
Roaring, like water on rocks,
smoothed by time.

Time is not kind. Not
with a haze of sweat
and tears and blood;
beaded drops of frustration
that block the moon, distort
the sun, and dangle the silver
lining, like the bit
of string that teases
the cat. Time
is only something to measure.
Something to count, besides
the patches in your soul,
and the scars left from frantically
trying to sew them in.

I am a mime.
Watching as if I could
understand, reaching
as if I could help.
The wind laughs.

It does not understand me.

I will watch because
I can not touch.
I will stay, for
I can not approach.

I will wait, here.
The mime outside the whirlwind.