was all I could find
writing poems late at night
my cracking
popping
       joints are keeping me company in the screaming silent hissing of the heater
the snow melting against the windowsill.
words written in ****** red pen
mean much more or
much less
than they would in the daylight

hovering over a
puddle of you,
“are you okay”

I whisper

you have been asleep
a few moments too long

I worry.