not yet

"over it yet?"

the phone crackles oppressively
but by now the question is so familiar
i can trace its path in the air with my fingers


and i trace the other paths between my ribs,
the thorns that secretly entwine themselves
into my bones and breath and belabored heart
over a thousand instants that can't be itemized,
only lapse-sped to form fleet impression--
a sense of being suddenly, overwhelmingly

lost.



i sigh,
"not yet,"

         and wonder
             if i wish to be