I’m stuck behind the bookcase.

Dust like latex.

My skin to my skin.

Losing what once was.

Salt on the tongue – gone flavourless, tongue didn’t twitch.

Grappling too tight, the nails broken below the flesh.

White, thin and delicate.

Cannot be pressed.

Bedsheets gone sweaty, no energy to wash them.

Leaking below my skull.

It was just springtime?

It didn’t change for me.

Moisture sapped from the skin.

Too taut to scratch.

Cobwebs, silk tethered, two spiders.

Throat’s dry.

Milky sweat.

Skin’s cracked.

Bitter stings.

The smell of pennies.

Stained sticky circles, brown and viscous.

Mossy fields on a tea bag.

Inhaled.

Losing my breath.

Phasing backwards.

Requiem for the hermit.

Stuck behind the bookcase.