WINTER

On the nights when the moon is more a word on the tip of the tongue than a saving grace positioned at such an angle in the sky that for a little while it almost seems believable that light is alive and well

and will once again enter my own life,

I learn to love the language that rises like a phoenix from the ashes of my burnt-up hope.

They say it gets better, but who they are and what it is are never clear. Still, I hold on to those syllables like each letter could suction cup itself to my windpipe and remind me to breathe even during torrential rain. I learn to love those three words like I learn to hold on to my own body the same way scared swimmers hold on to a life raft. I may be the scared swimmer metaphorically, but it will get better literally. That’s the beauty of language.

My heart has so many fossils full of dead feelings that an excavation would take centuries, so every time the darkness comes I try to remember to be my own paleontologist. I unearth the bad; I dig up the apologies and replace them with the fresh bones of love. I bookmark my own spine like a favorite reading page as a reminder for how many times it’s held me up and will continue to do so.

I remember that it gets better. I remember that all poems must end eventually, but that doesn’t mean I have to finish writing my life story before it’s even begun.