Young Writers Society

leaving a track of brine

If only I could keep him here.
If only I could save him pain.

“Shhh,” I pat my stomach,
“don’t cry, little one.”

The tear falls silently
landing on my chest
just below the indent of my collarbone
the one I broke when I was five. ^ Maybe it's just me, but i feel that these lines are a bit forced, like the line is too long, and you keep extending the rhytme.
It slides down between
the soft, supple hills
of my translucent breast.
It rolls over the pale skin
stretched across my engorged stomach
leaving a track of brine
and comes to rest
in the narrow lip of my navel. ^ The same thing as above, but I only feel it in these two last lines, in the rest it worked well.
Can he feel this? Is he crying too?
“Shhh.” I pat my stomach.
“Don’t cry, little one.”
He will never meet his papa,
this little one of mine
who resides safely now
in a place of warm darkness.
All too soon this little one
must face the world.
If only I could keep him here.
If only I could save him pain.