how we live

in the dark of the evening

we lay, clothed

cupped faces.

'tell me something'.

but you don't always talk to me.

you are the quiet and the staring

smoothing my hair.

i curl up close,

like a child.

you leave at 5am,

a dark morning presence.

the blue light is on

the heater is on

i am cradled in your mattress

dark smudges

under my eyes.

waiting for a kiss goodbye.

when i wake,

i am alone.

my feet are cold.

you are a pile of clothes

at the foot of the bed.

i stand by the window,

wrapped in blankets

and sipping juice

tracing the condensation on the windows.

i make the bed,

i clean the desk,

i fold your things,

i tie back my hair.

i leave

in the sharp january air.

Reviews

[Ed Hart]

no matter what you say, it comes out pure poetry