I suffer from a disease. It creeps past bedtime through fine ridges between threads of winter blankets and gets to me in that deep pit on the left side of my chest where once used to be a beating organ, just essential for survival, Until you were felt. Pain exists there, as I know like a thorny autumn bark And refuses to leave till I promise to every inch of me part by part one day they'd be home reviving beneath your skin, between your breaths Spring would emerge long caught in limbo But presently, I suffer from a disease It's called loneliness And the only cure I know Is you .
the rantings of solitude