The Wall’s Edge

Brick bites through fabric and skin,

gritty like the impatience tangled in my chest.

Chunks of mortar fall like small betrayals,

a crumbling roughness that never softened.

Fingers drift over cracked edges,

tired and searching for a hold.

That wall held up more than I did:

my shoulders, my silence,

shattered afternoons hung in the crevices.

A memory pressed flat against cold stone,

waiting to crack open again.