I see you sitting there, shell-like, hollowed out. Disconnected from what’s around you. Present but not.
I felt you slip away on gossamer thread, so fine & yet so strong…but only to a point. The elasticity has gone, worn out like the saggiest of greying bras.
You sense you are a drift but it is not the gentle bobbing of the sea current on a warm summer’s day; more the angry swell preparing to form a crashing breaker.
There is no physical pain but the detachment is bewildering. Not comfortable, not sharp but discombobulating. The edges are raw & scratchy. To steal from Alanis Morisette “a jagged little pill.”
Watching from inside, outside looking in, 2 halves of the same coin & yet not. If the pieces can be put back together, will you see the glue lines that bind & create a tough, resilient polymer or will you see the fractures, brittle, raw, not pretty to look at? 
