Like
kids we stand, either side of the glass.
We strain
our faces up against the pane,
flinching
from each other’s features.
This game
used to be fun.
The way
the window used to mould
the
nose and lips, flatten the tongue –
we’d
laugh at the monsters we created;
we’d
draw patterns with our fingers
in the
window’s condensation.
Now we
hammer on the glass,
slam
our heads against it.
We hear
each other’s voices
as
clouds of muffled noise.
There’s
nothing we can do about it.
We’re visible
but separated.
This poem is about struggling to form connections with others when in the grip of anxiety. It wasn't easy to write, either intellectually or emotionally.
