what is there left to say
when you have collected twelve months in your pockets
and the pages we promised to write together
are still empty, darling,
we sobered up like a slap in the face and maybe
we didn't give ourselves enough time
time, time to adjust
to sleeping eight solid hours and drinking clean water
and I am sorry I never called you pet names
I know I spent half the time shooting
fevered glances over your shoulder and mine,
on the lookout for those ghosts I had just shaken
and you spent half the time waiting
to cough up all the mud you ate as a child
and sometimes we forgot
each other
maybe if we had opened your apartment windows
once in a while, let the storms blow through
maybe I would have wrapped myself up
in you to keep warm, maybe
I wouldn't have left our bed
so cold every night
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