Ficlets

I tell her I’ve been sick. It’s almost true:
I spent all last week sleeping. Back in town
is back to work and nose is somewhat down
to grindstone, and that week in bed just flew.
I’ve lost the urge for people; if they’re new,
they’re too much work, and if they’re not,
they’ll have too many questions. It’s too hot,
to think of how to answer, “Where were you?”

I get the sense that we’re the same, at least,
from all you’ve said, which isn’t very much.
The sense that you have somehow been released,
the sense that you’ve forgotten how to touch;
That I’m not here for all that I’ve returned;
that I’ve forgotten everything I learned.