warm and fade

i'm neither numb nor knowing. i have no words appropriate, no sentences that seem to reflect my insides. i have little elbow room, and the ceiling is upon me, but my expectations are endless. i can only write circles around the things that have corners, and i can only palpate that which has no substance. i'm neither floating nor grounded, but i'm where i should be. i can't exactly find your face in my charcoal, but its painfully clear in my head. i've written all of my questions down, but i want none of them answered.

i just roll them around in my palm, until they warm and fade, and return at a later time.