I haven’t been writing in a while 
and I know it’s because I’ve been refusing to feel 
what’s there 
To make contact with this faraway 
lonely planet. Waking up everyday 
is like walking into an empty room 
and my presence does not make
much of a difference. I feel I’m dying 
from lack of touch and your loving 
is my medicine. My skin is a desert 
and you are the monsoon, just a season 
and my skin is ever thirsty and ever 
hungry. And these feelings inside 
I just can’t hide but I do, and maybe 
that’s why— I haven’t been writing much lately, because when I do, there’s always you 
missing.