thinking through our last conversation

This being human is a guest house.
Every day, a new arrival. - Rumi

the way solitude shelters
but numbs and one doesn’t exist
without the other

because you can’t have cake 
in the house without wanting 
to lick the frosting
when you think no one is looking

the way worry twists itself into a ball
of bed linens slightly damp with sweat

the surprise
your blood moving still despite your heart 
being so broken