You’re a midnight sweat
without the immediate aftermath,
waking up to all this space
I’m not used to.
The moon pours
in puddles, tickles my legs
until sun up, again.
I don’t remember what you look like.
After 20 years
one would think I’d get it right, but you evade
recollection like I evade commitment.
10 years to acknowledge my part,
5 to fix it,
4 to break it,
and forever to see your ghosts.
Timeline’s fuzzy, but you’re there,
You’re seeping into the others, making love
and your eyes stare back.
I face the wall again,
she says “it’s okay” again,
and I curse, again.
We promise to try tomorrow,
but I swear you’re in the window.
and Dear Lover,
I was in the church yard where we made amends,
and since, the steeple donned your passion vines.
And now that I’ve returned,
I see you in them, faded.
But now you’re fleeting, Love,
into the tape I’ve left to tear
on repeat: your bed, in summertime,
when evening courted the afternoon to the darkened tree line,
and all we could think was fall could not come.