The scratchy fabric. Where it folds up, behind
your knees, like a study in practiced wrinkles.

There's only so much time you can spend with
yourself before that feeling of ill-ease sets in.
You stare at the people wearing seasonally
inappropriate clothing as they pass.
Pretend you aren't looking when they look back.
Half of the time I think people are in costume.
But isn't it all? Everything a costume of sorts?

I miss the feeling of clenched up fabric.
At night I bunch the sheets up in my fist as hard
as I can wishing that I could trade the pressure on
my jaw, my back teeth, my molars, for the half
moon shapes my nails dig into my palms.
But instead I get both.

I have known death for a long time.
But each time it drops by feels different.

I am again back to the question:
Where am I building my nest?
Twig by twig.