I am a clumsy writer

who sings with no

conviction.

Touch starved

an eyelash could move and I

desperate for you

store every word in a corner –

hoarding semi sweet utterances

thrown at me with minimal care.

I count the seconds on my fingers

clasping cushions

an artificial fill in for human companionship.

I begin to crave. To hallucinate. To dream.

Where hopes and anxieties cooperate with my manipulative mind

I live there until the sun fills the room

and return when it retreats