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
and solitude.

//

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
nothing. something

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.