So I’ve made it a few
months longer than you,
the ladybug sealed inside
for the winter,
crawling from windowsill
to wall to ceiling.
Don’t ask me
what I was feeling.

I survived all winter
so I know I was trying,
the cobwebs ghosting
the corners, wrinkling
somehow like your face,
the endless white
stretches of paint
I crossed and crossed.
It never felt like flying.