I’ve been busy since last year, I’ve been cold
my blue fingers smash and scream
through our home, my fickle heart
is not enough, and I need restarting
I need my stomach to stop aching

5,000 miles, eleven hours
but near enough that I can feel
my shoulders start to freckle
my chest start to thaw
my feet grounded in the sand

I can only hope that the West Coast
breaks a spell I’ve put on myself

But what of us when I am home?
What of me – poor, out of love, alone
trying not to shatter glass

I just need California to live in my chest
to set me up for a year without her


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