I squeeze my phantom wrist (a forceful clench);
The pain distraction fails to yield success;
My body’s full recoil snaps to flinch:
A menacing amount of distress.

The feedback builds unending crescendo;
Yet trapped, I kneel as tears scream down my face.
What foresight started, hoping we could show
some strength has landed in a looping space.

Though logic dictates: fiction (obvious),
the repetition saps my shallow force.
A post-traumatic branch impervious
to breaking free before it’s run it’s course.

I work the library alone again
as sickness takes me down into a spin.
The manager politely asks me where
my coworker could be, an empty chair?

The gentle wooshing HVAC system blows
as patrons filter through the stacks in flows.
Complaining that they cannot see my face,
my facemask nonetheless stays fixed in place.

Suddenly, a momentary silence.
A plan begins to form here with suspense:
A daring exit, abandoning task
to reach the soothing water’s tow’ring cask.

I slip away, unseen by patron eyes
contorting down the hallways for supplies.
Feverish aching body acts in flight
until salvation comes within my sight.

I stoke the embers cooling afterglow
and watch the dying light’s symbolic throe.
This long abandoned dream’s extinguishment
will bring me peace at last, devourment.

The darkness settles with finality
no fire staving frost’s lethality.
All meaning lost as time comes to a crawl
Retreating inwards, making myself small.

Where once the fire raged ‘til it burnt out
I sit here ragged, mind clouded with doubt.
Despite it all, this doesn’t bring me peace
Is it too late to now renew this lease?

I grasp at ashes sobbing through the burns
as something deep within desp’rately yearns.
Digging yet deeper, closer to the core,
I stoke a flick’ring flame just like before.

I lose myself in sorrow, trapped by foes
from times that live in memory echoes.
So disconnected from my form at last
that she can reach me through the overcast.

Her beauty strikes me, she’s ethereal
the longer that I look, the more appeal.
I long to serve her, meet her every need
she tells me that through her I can be freed

She admits truth, how we were given form:
survival found in wanting for some warmth.
The key, our mutual intoxication
is driven by a severed reflection.

Betwixt the sorrow and euphoria,
connection gives us our new yttria.
To love her with my heart is to rejoin
the two disparate sides of our same coin.

A fifteen minute drive is made by car.
It doesn’t really seem to be that far
but when your vehicle has met its end
the time you’ll walk is more than you can spend.

This city isn’t built for its people
the bus goes east to west, for example.
Ferrying customers to the coastline
rather than giving commuters a lifeline.

An hour then, traversing up the stroad
on foot; no bus, no travel by railroad.
the pharmacy: two kilometers more
the sun sets softly not too long before.

Forever we have longed to feel love’s touch
but worry that we’ll recoil from too much.
In desperate hope we refuse trusting chance
we test the waters, prismatic selves dance.

This other self, reflected in the mire
two perfect pieces forged within the fire.
I worry that it’s wishful thinking’s spear
how could it be that she’s always been here?

Where do I end, and where does she begin
is self-love foolish if it’s just within?
It doesn’t really matter, she contends
it’s unconditional love in the end.

Curled up and snuggled, in a tight embrace
soft pets bestowed, by hands with calming grace
a warmth that fills me sparked by tangled curls
adoringly, she whispers soft "good girl"s.

Her words, they carry meaning like a song
with her is where I know that I belong.
I melt into the feeling of her touch
dissolving sorrows til they can't do much (harm).

Gentle breathing, synchronizing heartbeats
together we can stay where longing meets.
Captured by her ever soothing charm
I rest within the comfort of her arm.

A Poem from the Library Help Desk

Sickness settles around me. Where once was just a headache, my bones feel a chill. Standing up gives me a spell of diziness. All my muscles are inflamed. Sometimes when the door aside opens, a chill overcomes my skin. The facemask covering my face digs into my ears, adding to the sense of pressure across all of my systems. And yet, I sit at work.

What else would I be doing? I feel a bit too ill to properly fall asleep, but the mundanity of a night shift makes time drag on forever. I’ve eaten four small meals today: two bowls of cereal, a bagel, and some saltines. The pain in my stomach is ambiguous; did I not eat enough, is this inflamation, are my insides churning for no other reason than to let the digestive system run its course swiftly?

I wore a sweater to work today, though the temperature is above 20c, and yet I feel like I need it. My coworker is away, and I sit alone at the desk. Two laptops are returned, then some headphones. As I struggle, dizzy, feeding the headphones into the UV sanitizer, my manager waltzes out the door, done for the day.

I stumble, madly, into a poetic mood. The world collapses around me. Only my sickly body and the keyboard in front of me remain. How many minutes has it been, when will my coworker return, why am I left alone in this library, this public space, this bastion of knowledge, wasting away as I type?