When I close my eyes
And lift my hands
To the curve of my cheek
Tip of my nose
Jut of my chin
My eyelashes overflow
With the recognition of what
I cannot see.
If my hands can behold beauty
Then why does it elude my eyes?
This is me thisis me thisisme
I repeat it like a dying prayer
Holding my heaving chest
Close to myself.
If I were to disappear tomorrow
My touch would be lost
Yet my sight
Would never have been found.
Behind my eyes
Broken telephone lines
Claire McFadden is a humor writer and occasional poet based in Philadelphia. She enjoys reading, writing, and talking to people except while she's reading or writing
Authors Notes: Telephone Lines emerged from a lonely moment sitting on my bedroom floor with my face in my hands. The heaviness of my thoughts was lifted by the pull of my fingers, as the clarity of their touch was akin to seeing for the first time. That beauty-- I mused-- has been there my entire life, yet until that moment I'd never held it in my hands. Whatever it was, it ran through my fingers and down the spine of my soul like silken water.