Casual Reassurance

Blood sits quietly
And waits its turn.
Churning, this heart
But subtly yearns
For the fading burns
Of Epsom salts.

I had cut my open palm
On the broken glass
Of preserving balms,
Conserving the calm
In the calling of storms
Where hurricanes dictate the norm.

Some things will always go forlorn,
An unaired wound will remain torn,
So we breathe.
So we keep our heads above the water
And hope that mine will not get hotter.