The cold returns. It creeps into your Friday night like a ghost, slipping under the cracks in your window, eats away at the thin veneer of defenses you have lined up around you. He mispronounces your name and you wonder if that is what will break the seal, but it is not. It is five hours of darkness later, of a muscle memory from decades past, of thin, sharp blades perfectly puncturing the dotted line along your arteries and saying see, this is who you are on the inside, does it look like you thought?
The truth is nothing looks like I thought.
But maybe exactly like I knew it must?
Wherever you go
There you are.
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