I'm living where I haven't lived, but visited before,
where the mouth churns into inhale form
and another closes after a gasp.

Dinner, I hear her say Predisone,
and I immediately become jello,
nostalgic of the summer poem I'd written,
a thin layer of cotton hiding my ripe skin.

Basement, I find the paintings I once purged.
They've befriended the dust in the creases.
I peer to find something, but there is no feeling.

I'm hovering:
what happens when I face a truth.