full circle weather, back where we were when i returned.
haven’t been outside to feel the grey
seep into skin, though cold clouds
usually make me smile
small smiles, made with no teeth
why is lonely different from alone
when both have the upstairs banging for company?
no one’s home when I knock. shock
my hands on doorknobs made of neurons
doesn’t matter cause
she never lets me in, not yet.
press my temple to feel
what squish squirms underneath
doesn’t take the shape i always hope for
but pink wrinkles stretch and curl
gyri and sulci are
peaks and valleys and waves without water
but still too permanent to notice that
i want out.
pin prick, pin
poke in my feet, phantom limbs that are still there
what can these arms do more than hold
is missing from the head.
when i go to bed
when i go to sleep i slip i slip i sleep
and dream that it is cold again.