not edgar allan poe

psychosis

Don't come in.
Speak to me through the small crack under the door (where the only light is from you as it shines through and
lightly illuminates the dark room).

Try to slide your fingers under the door, the hard wood smooth and cold.
My bare legs all but know the feeling of it.

Cry out for me, as I cry for myself and you, pulling the blanket around
my shoulders and over my head with shaking hands and trembling lungs.

Just to feel again -- to feel you -- is my only wish now.
I want to feel my body as my own,
my hands holding yours,
my eyes looking at your face,
my legs taking each step forward.

I pray this will not kill me
before I can do it myself.