Sitting between two worlds,
Like a bird on a telephone wire,
surveying the foreign landscape below.
Nothing looks the same,
And it all started when she woke
and turned over,
wrapped in a cocoon of sheets.

He was gone and her fingers
told stories of when he was gone...
and a feeling like being weighed down
by the clothes on her back
because they are drenched in water.

She smells his musk
on her cold pilllow,
But he is gone,
And so everything is worse.
A strangeness within her,
Leaving her organs restless
and hands twitching for an outlet,
that doesn’ t exist.

All alone she has no flowing words.
All alone she is a dried up,
lonesome,
fearful,
fool.
Too few words to change the world
and far too many fragments to glue back
into something recognizable.

He is gone.
Left her all alone.
Between two worlds.