I can hear it – the rain rattling across the roof, a rhythm just for me.
I can feel it – stirring from its long rest, shaking off the fog of sleep.
I am aware of my heart sounding off in my ears, the warm blood in my veins.
My toes uncurl against fresh sheets, eager to move, to race.
Nothing has no rhyme or reason. What is the meaning behind the season?
It wrestles me to take hold. I feel its needs take control.
And I am but a puppet, a monster cast in black and white. Expressionistic. Fatalistic.
Bones and muscle lock in place.
Gnarled fingertips claw beneath my skin. I feel it frustrated deep within.
Without it I’m a shell, a jagged edge incomplete. I need it here with me, in on chatter, eavesdropping with devilish delight.
Come and set me free.