4/11/17

Sometimes it's going so well for years, and then one morning you're just part of the background.

The morning light pours in, smooth lemon stream,

dominating barriers, glass and wood.

He neatly folds back presence and seam;

my heavy heart follows as devote stray would

to shower, mirror, suitcase, and laptop,

while the last taste of bad dreams float through.

The clock ticks to his high-strung rush and stop,

beside me and gone, the rhythm of dew.

If only he’d take a moment to lapse,

stare my way and lean down for gentle kiss -

melt Siberian shards and fill these cracks.

He rattles the door and soon vanishes.

In solitary existence, I think:

“He forgets how we loved with every blink.”