Sometimes I disappear. For days, weeks, months at a time. I stop talking to the people that care about me. I break plans. I get vicious when others try to bring me out of my self-induced coma. I’m conscious but never consciously there. I’m somewhere else, living off coffee in the creative worlds of creative minds. Hanging off each word they write and I read. Please forgive me for my absence; it’s warmer there. You come sometimes all times. Always on my mind. And it hurts. It hurts because it matters. But I live with the pain. Bc I don’t know that works for me.