It’s all script, the rend and rip of person
from person, lyric from rhythm, notes
from their home on the page. We’re separate.
If I can accept this, then the longing
is simple, chronic, expected.
It was only when I imagined myself of you,
that loving you was coming back
to taste my own flesh. If I could settle for less,
nap and get fat, be content arguing,
investing, hoping in earnest.
All day I could fend off demons,
pretend you’re listen behind the windowpane,
that as I wait you wake with eyes open,
lips parted, that I’m not the only one
up early and alone.
If I could bend my will to a paperclip
and forget, hold on to none of it,
then I would not need you,
would not miss you,
would be a fine citizen of a life like this.