These days I find myself
sinking slow down into my chair,
hair mussed twirled 'round finger,
thoughtless I blink and breathe.

My cuticles are dry and worn,
knuckles arthritic and sore,
cold weather beaten I'm blank
and lonely, skin peeling away.

Creases by my finger tips
tell stories of every object
I've caressed, frigid hands,
I fold up like an envelope.

My life is a schedule of hats
and missing bobby-pins,
mismatched socks and lukewarm
coffee, stained mug and all.

There are nightly fevers,
and dreams, but mostly cold sweat,
beads forming, nape of the neck
back pain shivers down the spine

These dreams are mine
they'll stop in time
when I cut the line
between you and I.