Now, where is it? I wrote something.
About an hour, I wrote something.
My body knows I wrote it all.
Or, was it just a fevered dream?

Anthropomising all my fears
As children I have tumbled with,
As faster boys in games of Tag,
As quieter girls in Hide and Seek,

As little children beating me
In every game I play with them,
Except in chess, where I don’t lose:
They win because they blunder less.

There’s nothing on the paper, though.
There’s nothing on my Google Keep.
My body knows I wrote it all.
But, was it just a fevered dream?

The characters are fading now.
And not the way when I awake.
The way they do once I am done
Imprisoning them on a page.

My soaken bed shows sweaty sleep.
My mother’s face, that I have screamed.
My body knows I wrote it all.
And yet, it was a fevered dream.