‘There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me.’ C.S. Lewis
Several times a year
now
the doors slam shut.
Silence outside and
immense, cacophonous chatter
within.
Productive.
But in an entirely
different
way.
There is no one else to touch.
Just the shallow
close-knit presence of my
self.
Brush in hand
usually always-
-sometimes this
the keys softly clicking to
my touch
remind me there will be an
outside
door a throwing off of the covers
again.