There is a tiny patch of skin underneath my left wrist bone

That is always dry and rough

No matter how much calamine I rub upon it

It remains tough as leather

I lay in bed at night

Tracing its surface with my fingers

Wondering why it never softens

And wondering why lavender smells the way it does

Nostalgic and comforting, yet fresh and tingling all at once

And wondering why my grandparents are dead and if they are in Heaven

And asking God that, but mostly wondering

Wondering why everything costs money and why none of us have enough of it

And wondering why I chose to paint my room green

Instead of creamy yellow

A gentler color would soothe my racing thoughts, maybe

The face of the moon reflects off my picture frames

I can only see the edges

Darkness shadows what is inside

I lay in bed and trace my wrist bone

And wonder if my heart will ever grow old