I cough words
onto a page,
and hold it up to the world.
They call it art, they call it poetry.

Invariably,
You prefer to come
To me in the dark.
"You're more my temperature then,"
You once said.
I'm not much of a thermometer,
But I am the eurythmy
To each syllable you give
In such settled shadow.
A play of murmurs and fingertips,
You once named this.
Always I see a wreath in your hair,
In colors of Persia,
Textures of night,
And the soft blended lines
Of you I know
Infallibly.

I have things I absolutely cannot do.
I swear it is not a lie but 100% true.

I cannot message strangers online.
Have caused trouble time after time.

I cannot be alone near fire.
Please don't ask why.

I can only watch certain shows.
Everything below TV14.

I can not walk around alone.
Need someone with me.

It's been a while, hasn't it?

I sometimes wonder
If you remember me at all,
Beneath your stressful days
And endless nights.

Do you remember me?

I have hidden here,
Waiting
Just for you.

Because I am you.

You are not the girl I used to know,
Not the one you used to be.
But that's okay,
I have changed too.

Have we both grown by leaps and bounds?

I wish you all the best,
But please
I beg of you.

Do not forsake me.

this feeling is not
symbiotic: you reduce
my core to nothing

Wars will never end,
Mistrust reigns everywhere,
Simple folks just die.

I am not asking you to heal me, darling
I need to do that myself

But if you'll wait patiently while I do, I'll help heal you too