by ashwinia

The walls close in,
and I shudder in fear
helpless deep down and under.
I can blame no one
for a bungle my own.
I hold my legs, curl into a ball,
cry to sleep, feeling the fall.
I wake up to loud, unrelenting beeps;
a resolute inkling had made you call.
I recount to you my tale; 
my chin quivers, my hand shivers
as my repentant eyes search the floor
for an invisible door.
I was to always do you proud.
Your voice though lifts my head up 
and your words kiss its fore. 
You haul me up, prod me higher
and nod with a smile that 
tells me more.

You're rummaging for the next 
chronological step,
lost in the parallels of your tale.
My eyes fixed on yours,
go with you far away,
around the clock in circles 
As you lead me on up the rickety steps
into that faint evening,
your eyes start to dampen. 
Tears softly surface in mine,
push to the end of every lash,
threaten to plummet
and roll down an inch;
I struggle to keep them in.
Can I hold your hand tight
and rewrite the rest?
For it's a sorrow so deep
to see you weep.

They say: family is that
with flow of blood identical.
I ask: What is that that 
has a flow more intense
but of emotion instead?
What when the similarity I see
is in faith and belief?
and when it isn't desire,
but growing fondness and deference?
What when there is a definite link
of magical instinct,
of affection that shoots up, a pang
but then balms into gentle tears
and prolonged, eloquent embraces,
and of love that can't subside,
that refuses to quieten.
What is it when walking away is 
each time heart-breaking,
and the idea of farewell
isn't even one?
You tell me: When this is all
unconditionally absolute 
and absolutely unconditional, 
what can you be to me
but family?