the loneliness punctuating my life
would burn off like darkness in the morning.
I thought I would breathe
clear and still
and I would forget what it felt like--
not to be loved.
Now nights find me waking,
to the slow even rhythm of your breathing,
the heavy weight of your chest rising,
the soundless exhale of its resolution.
I don't know where you dream.
The familiarity of you wakes me in the mornings--
the gait of your footfall,
the scratch of your razor,
the tune hummed while dressing,
your humming toothbrush--
And I wonder about being loved;
what is feels like not to be loved,
and while I'm thinking,
while my eyes are still closed,
you leave without saying goodbye.