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.
I am still here, in pain, but still here.
