Write it out...

    If I could write it out 
of my blood and bones
that would be perfect. 
Bit by bit, unspooled, 
withdrawn. Freed from. 
The left hand could take from 
the right. The mind 
could pull out from the heart. 
The little toe could 
become it’s own country. 
My eyes could see the view, 
the lay of the land, 
not as a map but as a maze 
and once again
I am lost in tomorrow. 
Empty sleepy dreamless.

            And who would know 
what she ever intended? 
What joy she had in being
there, in wanting 
something together.
In never wanting to leave. 
In some
infinite touch.