Did I lose a pound or few?
Running away from the tyranny of my self hate.
Infectious and contagious,
My touch is an early spring flu in summer,
Uncertain and cold.
Strings of quiet, play over a course cough from my unwell,
That how every day is cut from every night that I spend waiting for the next.
And the touch is lost in cold,
Stark realities that merge and imagination that falls below critical temperature,
And all i wonder apart from the white concrete is
Did I lose a pound or few?