truth

is I woke this morning with a feeling in my back like I'd been punched, hard to tell if it's the way my bed rests on old bricks or something internal. Breathing, esp. in yoga, has felt compromised. Truth is I'm not sure my house is properly insulated; I'm not sure I'm properly insulated for the coming winter. Truth is I traveled a long way and sometimes wonder where I am, how much of my heart came with me. Truth is I watched the sky turn pink over the train tracks by the Hudson and want the right person to share it with me and I don't know if I'll ever find that again. If I ever had it. Truth is I read Plath's prose today and recognize her polartactic, strange and selfish genius, the Rosenbergs and new shoes in one sentence. I want someone to talk about it with. Had goldenly fried fish next to Jeremiah at the red dot counter and felt only partly home. A man followed me for a block...don't worry I'm not going to bite you baby, you're a tiny little thing...
Truth is I'm a little too alone, and this feeling is a little too familiar.