Holes in My Pockets

I paint a smile on my face.

I tell myself it’s over,

and I can live as I once did,

without the endless sorrow.

I hide my hands inside the pockets

of my favorite jeans. I worry holes,

my knuckles raw from

emptiness and ache.

My fingers cannot grasp you now.

You’ve fallen through the holes.

I miss not only what we were,

but what we couldn’t be.

response poem to September poetry prompt day 2, send in the clowns, in the Garden of Neuro Poetry Circle

published in Substack:

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