It’s just under my pink paper skin.
The deep, dark sadness that comes from
a year of waiting. Holding. Staying.
Everything a wash of blurred grey;
the clearness of lines, gone. Faces
sunken from lack of color,
eyes downcast, limbs treading water
like dogs nearly swept under a
current of chaos.
I am small.
Sinking into myself more
with each day I never leave the house;
eyes weary of my walls.
I have forgotten the communal.
Now, we are only virus sneaking into pockets,
behind collars, marking necks
like hidden lovers.
I can’t conjure goosebumps.
The sound of music in my ear,
inching it’s way through skin
into pumping blood.
A memory, blurred into
scattered bits of brain fog.
Remember catching the eyes of a stranger,
lips curling like a prayer said
just for you? The brush of an
arm in line for coffee.
Drunken arms wrapped around each other.