something acid picks at my gut
when I think about your sickness —
I write it down sharp and raw
in pencil, scratchy as habits,
word-faint moths of chronic pain.
what I really need is You, back,
and erase this pencil scratching,
uncap the marker pen with force
of permanence and You, sweeping
smooth and slick as raining words.
and while I scratch away here
in the quiet night, the mice come
creepy-quick around my castle walls
to break this train of thought,
they think I’m one of them now.