Ringing, Ringing

Longing's lingering like a double-gerund.
Malingering at this point. We call our 
selves and they do not answer. We reach
for other shelves and they crumble, books 
careening into the river of our lost mugs
of coffee. Should've drunk that coffee. Or
not. The research comes back mixed on 
hot seed-water. And I like my sums
mixed too. A little good, a little re
prehensible. Do it? Become prehensible
again? I am very not sure. Extremely not.
Flinching looks at longing
and feels short.