In lieu of the entry I thought of a few days ago about how I now feel going home etc, a poem that I wasn’t going to post. Named ‘untitled9’ in the Poems folder of my laptop, I shall be calling it “IX” from now on.

I lie beside, aching. Swaying
With the tug of the line, pulling
My navel, behind my skin,
My body to yours.

We are firm. We lie.
Saying what we don’t believe.
Lying together, spinning together, tense. Tangible.
I feel your skin, warm against my hands.

Fluted, shaped, I trace the lines of you
With tense fingertips.
Prohibited. Dangerously easy.

Having said that, I’m now considering my thoughts on going home etc. So that may appear as well.

Also, a thought: The Cube does not warrant so much cheering and philosophical thought. In the real world you will never be asked to empty a box of small red balls in less than 45 seconds.

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