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we work, we learn,
we hardly play
we're not allowed to dream.
these are dangerous times.
i hibernate within my skin, drink tea
and wait.
eat ice-cream for lunch.
every friday night clamber into
beloved's purple cotton jogging bottoms
and his oversized jumpers
to feel warm.
by day piercing my fingers with needles,
until their tips are red and flushed
or using them to mould paper
around objects that don't speak.
the grey window pane,
reminds me that once again
life is,
could possibly be,
is probably,
bleak.

i want to fly across the countryside,
gaze into the dark
and find myself again.

i love you.