slowly i will forget you. The soft sound that loudly embraced love like no other. the music you played me. The music you were. the songs you liked that i listened to because i loved. the songs we shared. i will forget what your voice sounds like when its singing me to sleep. i will forget because otherwise i will imagine it. i will know it is away from me.
I am obsessed
with the details of today.
I thought it over and I’m thinking it over and I believe I understand
the implications of my actions and the thought behind yours.
I love being the love
the care of your day on a series of days when you desperately need it,
but especially on days when it’s just the frosting
on something that is already okay.
I can do that, I think.
I can be there, I believe.
I will be better than what you expect of me.
Not exactly what you want me to be
but beyond anything that was so clearly
a perfect match.
to smile when you see me–
that is enough
to be dangerously what I lust
A one way love,
or a two way dependency that continues down
becoming a small, stealthy,
pathway to being distraught
that we so failed to recognize because
we were wandering and did not ask to end up on this path.
I just thought that waking up this morning
and having my love lie in my arms,
kissing your cheek indefinitely,
meant no direction was needed:
if everything was inevitable
if it all led to this.
complacency and peace:
completely different pieces
of a puzzle whose image is unclear.
the final product is happiness, maybe.
but what can bring us there?
(I placed you in my bed, but it was not to sleep.
I expected you to stay, but you thought it best to leave
for something else, but still, with a part of me.)
I lied by you in bed but I did not know
that being asleep is something you preferred to being woke
-n but my noises, however bittersweet,
they were unexpected.
“like a truck,” you said
unlike the ebbs of the earth, you suggest
“it surprises me,” you claim.
I guess it’s true — you did not ever wake up
to see me breathing on Sunday morning
or to hear me speak all but sweet nothings,
and I suppose now is the time
–I know– it is bedtime
for more than I’ll care to admit (at all times).
there have been many words used to describe this feeling,
but none seem to do the justice of
I thought of
the sobering solitude of Sunday
I can’t help thinking that
there are only so many things I can lose
before I lose my mind.