Watching the light slip out of the room.

I have been lying in bed all day since the dream

ended, waiting for it to begin again. The silence

that gathers in the room sounds like your name.


My head full of dreams my mouth tastes like wine

left over from the lips that I kissed last night.

Vines curl around your throat. Blue starlight filters in

from the outside, falls in stripes across the floor.


In the dark my room begins to smell like you.

My heart crows, my insides wilt, I know you are not here.

The dream must have begun again, an invisible bridge

crossed without my knowing. Classical music waltzes in.


The stars look cold and small, smoldering in their solitude.

One eye open, one eye shut, half the brain wakes and walks

in small circles, cycling the corners of the room. The other half

sighs, calculates your scent, allows the hand to touch a ghost. 



I think that this is the time of year to be sad.

The thin light, the frail dustings of snow.

Everyone is sick with something, love or death, a lack of magic;

it shows up everywhere on the body:

gathering under the eyes,

cracking the bottom lip,

softening and scratching the voice like strep.

I am sick with you,

sick without you;

somehow I finally understand

and it seems so unfair that it should happen for us this way,

staggered, at different times, on opposite sides of the coin.

Soul mates is a heavy phrase. I am afraid that you cannot

take the weight. Pain and love. Single syllables.

Sharp and poignant both, like shined knives. We had to set

our time aside, and it was like breaking a bone

just to watch it heal.