Breathing is labor: one of those days

One of those days
when the song on the radio brings back time and it stays
and every shed tear, every far-off laughter
returns like a ghost from a former chapter.

One of those days
when my mother’s voice in my memory sways;
all her quiet wars, her calloused grace, still a warrior,
her love I held dear yet too often misplaced.

One of those days
when no word you offer can alter my haze
as I name myself a failure, a field gone dry,
where seeds of dreams fell but forgot how to rise.

One of those days
when I’d welcome the arms that once dealt me pain
for emptiness yawns like a vast cathedral
and the hurt feels smaller, almost genteel.

One of those days
when breathing is hard labor, a steep narrow way,
and dragging my feet through the dust of hours
feels like scaling unending, invisible towers.

One of those days
when I wish you near through the lingering ache,
for the hollow you carved in my tender chest
still echoes your absence, your faithlessness.

One of those days
when my heart keeps count of the debts you delayed,
still seeking the ending you would not give
to the girl who was breaking while trying to live.

One of those days
when I sit with the dark, strangely unafraid,
my trembling body worn thin by the storm
welcomes this quiet like a classical art form.

One of those days…
and I know it will pass, as all shadowed ways;
for even in dusk some ember remains,
breathing me back through the night’s slow rains.