Yes to the catchup, I saw your text, 

I’m just not sure about which day

I’m free yet, but I’ll reply soon

No, of course. No worries. Looking forward!

But I’m just not sure about which day 

My hands will not be cold when I touch 

Warm palms of nice people who look past 

The sudden press of snowy death, ghosts 

Of my fingertips, they lost their way in the cold

That’s internal to my love, my hug, my kiss,

The ghost neighbor holds my past news, she frowns,

With periodic concern that makes me feel commonly guilty

When I hug, or kiss, or love myself

For cradling too much pity, neighing,

I stymie, with concern over my bones, growing cold

On the shelf, but can I love another when you cry, inside,

All the time, I bracket you filly foal on this blue droop day

(The sun is film, flash, yellow but your horseheart wooden, dark, houses

A pickle, hiding limp tears you hold for everything external, womb, grasses,

That live and breathe to stink the next second, doubt, atoms)

The sky is film flash yellow with fungible floaters, 

Undramatic splinters that make you tear up just a bit, again,

(About the blade that broke the next second as life split,

Breath into inhale and exhale, Xy and Flo) Ah-Em. Two complementaries don’t leak. They

Share space as good neighbors. Undramatic, alive but cleft.

Unsure about the next opening. But. Looking forward. To the calendar’s

Unentered, white space. So. Catch which day? Breathe, don’t leak, I’ll reply, of course, 

When I catch up to where my cold tips flash fission yellow.