I forget this place exists. I forget that there's a place inside me that used words here like flower petals, like spikes of silver, heated.
I forget.
So much, sometimes, I am in between my selves, divulging to the world very little of the ends as they meet in smiles, in caresses, in coming up for air.
Life continues, and I write very little some days, yet, on other days, I write as if I won't have tomorrow.
Will I?
My body is breaking this month--not into poetic splinters, but into diagnosed paragraphs. My left foot protests every step, every second of rest, every pulse of electric through my nerves brings my foot to the center of me, as if it, in a turn of Kafka, has become my heart pounding.
This is not the worse pain, but the Latin behind it makes it grandiose, when, in fact, it's such a medical commonality that every other person at work has heard of it, or had it, and healed, although they wince, still, in the telling of the pain.
There is, also, blood, but the blood is common, too, and as regular as the moon's waning and waxing. Yet, my body is breaking; it mumbles and screams, in turn, as if it is tired of being ignored.