Tangled cords unwrap themselves
like she does in the mornings when
she arches her back and reaches
forward with her arms. Things
are never fully done; like a book
that keeps growing additional
pages in the same way humans cultivate
fingernails. There is a methodology in
the pain we all go through, and part of it
is orchestrated by the us in our heads
pointing at the different moments we
can’t stop thinking about in our sleep.
The rest all comes from the people
around us like a cold spread through
the particles from sneezes and coughs.
The lights are all off and in the dark we
are struggling to plug ourselves back in
so we can look around at this mess we
made and start to pick things up one at
a time. In our searching we feel our hands
touch, and it brings us comfort because
if nothing else at least we know there’s
someone in there with us, sharing the dark,
like a knife to cut open our palms.

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