oddly even now

you feel too far away

your words arrive and i feel
like i have found my bike, stolen
and given up
for belonging to somebody else

my life is a collision of
workandwords
and not enough sleep in-between

i mainly write when there is no
time to, and instead
when there is no pressure i find myself bare
and scared that i may never again
create and then
it comes and the pattern continues

to confuse. i was writing
some longer and shorter and now i find
they are musical and true

but please send me everything, even
the left-overs, for i am hungry
and have missed your home cooking.

are yours? my hands are cold and i cross
them and bury each one
in the opposite armpit

softly falls a girl who falls softy