Departure gets under my skin.
It ruffles me, it sets my hair on end.
I do not like to be in the same place as it.
Impending departure sends me running.
When the idea of departure has set in my teeth,
entered my nostrils, dried my lips,
arched my back and cracked my cuticles,
when it has crept inside of me,
I want to creep outside of myself.
Too afraid to be there when absence kicks in, my brain ploughs ahead of itself,
onward toward the next situational device.