I do my best to forget when I write,
I imagine I’m thousands of miles away being anyone other than me.
Because it’s easier that way.
So much easier than being me,
With my problems,
With my worries,
With my pain, my own depleted energy.
Because I have enough of that late at night when I can’t sleep,
And I’m overwhelmingly present.
So very much aware of the bed I’m in,
The aching in my body and in my heart,
The thoughts rushing through my brain too fast for me to pin down
But just slow enough to leave me dreading the next one.
Like trains, but then again my thoughts never stay on track
Just look at this poem.
We started talking about writing and now we’re talking about trains.
And we are talking,
Because you’re listening to my words and you’re caring
If only a little
about this ends.
I’m sorry to tell you it doesn’t end.