The first whisper
of a breath of fall
coming in
through the cracks
of the window.
Your head rested
comfortably against my dreams.
My failings still stirring
on the pillow –
my eyes
not adjusting to light;
I will never go
back
to sleep
pinned perfectly
between your arms.
This bed spells
death
when 1 a.m. is always
rising to the surface of the sun.
It’s hard to know
which chair in the corner
will help me
stand
these dreams
are going
away
faster than how you left;
those nights
when we stayed
home.
No comments:
Post a Comment