My skin itches as if something needs to get in,
A constant trend toward a location not here.
Angstroms of ephemera swarm like the hum
Of bees, the chatter of others; but not the bees
Nor the others: I am who I am,
A patchwork facsimile of all I hoped to be,
As are you as well. We are never apart:
Whitman’s atoms, Lennon’s goo goo g’joob,
An interlaced amalgam of each interaction,
Of each handshake, each mumbled explanation
Of the last big game, of her last affair, of god:
Each a part of the tale I tell to myself
When too tired to push back sufficiently
To create space enough to breathe on my own.