the impetus to start writing again
is slow at first, a creeping sensation
(words in the blood, words in the marrow)
of disarticulation, or silence.
and then a moment, cached in sunshine
and citrus daylight, the window
of words gently opening to the warmth.
(what your presence means:
what your body says to me here
in the twilight as we wind down,
twined together again in fingertips
and emotions and ideals.)