Come Rest Your Weary Bones

Weathered and worn wooden bench

Green moss clinging to what’s still held together

Come rest your weary bones, It says to me

But I don’t think my bones are the problem

My fingers freeze under the cloudy skies,

 my headaches from the sun's rise. 

When I cut myself, I usually don't bleed to death. 

My body gathering years of moths and rust stays in this present moment,

 but my mind looks behind.

When you were a child, did you ever fear you'd stop breathing 

if you focused on breathing? 

But if you paid no attention, 

you'd go along just fine.

 Inhale, exhale,

 Repeat,

 repeat. 

Subconscious memories of your future home.

 Come, come, rest your weary bones, it says to me. 

But I don't think my bones are the problem.