most of the time i'm outside my body
looking for ways to climb back in
between the spaces of my ribs
where the metaphorical heart lives
and i can't see anything that isn't physical
only the tangible touch is lived

and then i come crashing back inside my body
white hot pain in a burnt fingertip that touches a hot stove lid,
an hour drive to a not-too-far away place, ocean waves
a clear night and too many stars to connect with naked eyes
two full lungs and an even, heady heart pace

the moment never fails to fade;
leave me looking to claw back out my body,
a feeling close to enraged, closer to bitter some days;
desperate to tear back my skin if it means escape
until i'm outside my body again
looking for ways to climb back in