Worry

A Poem by Lisa Williams

Burnt, my lip is like a bubble.
Like a pillow.
I shouldn’t touch it but I can’t stop.
I push against it and feel its lack of feeling,
I wonder if it’s filled with liquid,
if it will burst when pressed too hard,
coating, soaking, my chin,
making me run for the bathroom to wash it clean.
I worry it
like I worry thoughts of you.
I don’t know if you are more to me than the
nearly everything
you were before,
but my mind wanders
moseys
meanders
to you.
I wonder and I worry,
and sometimes it’s not my lip I’m thinking of but yours.
I’m sorry that you make me cry --
it’s something that I just can’t help.
I am thankful for my scalded lip.
It’s a good excuse to think of you.