I find it not in daffodils.
Not in the sky, the sea, the range.
Not even when I rearrange
the thoughts with which my head fills.
(Which I often do)

No place where I am truly alone,
And I have to interrupt my life for this.
Its not as though my thoughts are my only refuge,
Because my stream of consciousness is that -
I want food, I want sleep, nothing more and nothing huge.

I want for nothing, and nothing wants for me.
Best left alone in my own private purgatory?
Like the women in poetry.
But I want some things.
And some of them want me.

I want certainty in more things than death.
If I had certainty in one variable, maybe I could fix it.
Measure the length and breadth.
And finally, subtract the area from a number of my choice.

At last I draw a blank.
A blank that engulfs even that corner of my mind I haven't come across.
I know, I'm not the kind to walk the plank.
I am nothing, none and nobody. At best.
In no mood, no form, to put words to this mouth. The words stank.

And perhaps this is unrelated to the changes that pour.
Its me. I changed as you changed, so we became.
And I won't let you leave me so alone. So poor.
With nothing exquisite and nothing to show.
For me, for you.

We are it. All. Everything.
And then I go and make this choice that messes with the order of things and I want to refrain but I want it too but the work required is
too hard to do.
Too ****** hard to do.