Sometimes, when I miss you, the wind blows through my skeleton.
I think these bones must be hollow - 
what other explanation can I give that haunting hum?
Stumbling, a child fumbling the ridges of a flute with unpracticed fingers.

I suppose anxiety is a bit like the Pied Piper, promising to cleanse my life
while stealing something else.
I remind myself that panic is the verb used by children with monsters under their beds
and thrill-seekers plummeting on bungee cords, strapped in,
but I get distracted by all the words
and forget that I’m
strapped in.

I’ve started collecting the color yellow.
Not in a jar, just with my eyes,
as if photocopied dandelions and soft butter could keep me warm.

Maybe it’s because yellow is the color of the house I learned to walk in,
the only house 
where I’ve drawn on the walls,
but I never finished that painting anyway.

Maybe it’s that yellow washes out the pallor in my cheeks,
dulls my hair to monochrome,
and so I watch the rest of the world carry it without me,
carry on
without me.

It’s cold here.
I never dress for the cold.
Something about the scarves, I think, it’s hard to remember.

Sometimes, when I miss myself, the wind blows through my skeleton.
But if the Piper plays just right,
we can all watch our skeletons dance.