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I can recognize why the isolation, brought on by outside forces, or from the depths of my own abdomen, cuts to the quick like it does. But my spirit feels like it needs it sometimes. To stow away from connectivity. To be still enough to let lichen collect in the crevices. To not engage with the artifact of the mirror but sense reflection all the same. Yet, I ache all the while. My heart, dipped in wax, brittle to the touch, and malleable, malleable, malleable to the heat. Distance measured in physical and spiritual connection, connection, connection of the self is not enough. After a while it morphs into static and the transmission sputters. I've been jostled from the hook and now I dangle precariously, singing dial tone symphony.
Someone pick me up - I'm expecting a call.