A sevenling at the start of a relapse

Three things send a smoke signal, dark against the sky:
A pitterpatter heart, leapfrogging itself in ragged cadence;
A vice-squeezed head; and, in every limb, a delicate pain that has many names, and none.

Three things are yet to come:
The sickly waspish buzzing in a thousand nerve ends;
Fear that gnaws at bones; and weariness so deep it drowns all hope.

Above, the moon glides, regretful, behind the clouds, and is gone.

- Kathy, 21/10/15