Housed within my ribs
is a metronome that on a good day,
glistens like a cluster of amethyst,
but most days, it burns
like an arsonist’s proudest achievement.
It is an anatomical feature
I thought I disposed of
when sitting on fire escapes,
waiting for lovers to save me from the clutches
of my own sins & sorrows.
But she wrapped some grass around my obituary
and smoked it.
The vapors felt like my soul parting from my body,
but you did not say goodbye.
That day,
you made love to my ghost while a part of me watched.
That’s the shame of dying –
no one knows where we are
& I exited the room silently.
Isabelle Palerma 
“That’s the shame of dying –no one knows where we are& I exited the room silently.”
This poem. Heavy. Damn. I cant put down in words in a literary sense what it means. I only have emotions. Tight feelings. I held my breath as I read. I mourned the end. Fantastic.
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Your critiques and feedback are devoured and mean more to me than my simple words can express.
Thank you for your comments. Truly.
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“Our doubts are traitors, And make us lose the good we oft might win, By fearing to attempt” – Measure for Measure, Lucio in Act 1, Scene 4
It takes grit and courage to share one’s writing to an admiring bog. The least I can do is celebrate it.
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…your comments are like fuel to a fire I cant see but i can feel. Having this back and forth with a cherished author means the world to me, Poetess. Please never stop the gift of your insight. Your comments are devoured and filed away near to my heart.
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