It's been a little while since I tried this
self-therapy via words
that I won't share with anyone
but strangers near or far

a little while since my prose
got up from their beds
dusted off some cobwebs
and stretched their limbs

a little while since the black ichor
the ink that sometimes
bleeds out onto laptop keys
became mediocre poetry

and I get it, life's been hard
not too hard, but busy
not emotionally, but physically
and I didn't really need it

but I missed this
this little stretch of mental finesse
this warming up of metaphors
this cracking of poetic knuckles

Maybe this is what it's like to be understood.