I worry I might get stuck in the place
that I go where the impossibilities
build a casing around me and the choir
of my doubt drowns out the sound of reason.
You catch it often, I get there in a flash
with the tilt of my head and the crease
in my brow and you say where did you go and
how can I get you back?
Keep calling, I want to be back
in the land of the living and back
in the golden hour of your love.