it is cold and it is winter and perhaps my clarity
has taken refuge in warmth i cannot track down.
i am left, shivering, shaking, internally rupturing,
wondering how you got in here.
you settle down between my sense and sensibility
and i imagine you, laughing, watching unattached
while i dizzy myself in an attempt to find freedom
from the stories my lapse in supervision let you create.
old habits are the worst friends
(writing is the best medicine. peace comes with release.)