mindful mondays

her fingers slid down the ridge of my shoulder-blade
flattening out knots like a steam roller
and then she placed her thumb in that small dent
behind my clavicle bone
the one that feels like a worry stone
that has been worn down
with time
and she lingered there,
rubbing the worry out of me

i could hear the receptionist’s muffled voice in the next room
but i could hear even more
the music on the radio
the piano
with its melancholic notes
pulling tears from my eyes
like the moon from the tide

it smelled of massage oil
and the faint burn of the floor heater
cranking heat into the small room
and creaking, almost in protest
as if to say
where is spring?
and why isn’t she here
to warm the winter
out of this girl’s bones?