stop

All contentment wants 
is to wander 

home in the rain, some 

strange/familiar haunting 
in my ears, keeping feet pulse,

however, 
but -

My subconscious 

forgot 

to pick up my umbrella

thinking I could manage 
a quick slip

out, 
the rain -

Your crutches are lonely

Pick up your crutches

they're hiding under the bed

afraid of the world

afraid of me
afraid of my width ...

The end.

The end.

The end.

My body believes it can run;

the head thinks it might never walk.

My words 
quietly 
disjointed as my gait.