Living,  
with chronic
pain,
is like sharing a space  
with a younger version  
of myself.  
At night,  
I let her  
come into my room,  
she is slow, delicate  
like a child sneaking
into bed.  
Her nature
knows, no
childish mischief
like that of a child  
up past bedtime.  
She knows–  
all the corners
of my tired mind
where my nerves  
sag like telephone wires.  
She knows–
where to lay
an icy touch
and play  
in the realms  
of my life, before  
we met
and,
she knows–  
how to go
to bed, at night
and wake with me
in the morning.