Memories and longing can make us into insomniacs some nights
and that frustration is what has inspired My pillow.
My
pillow
Most nights thoughts of you
still keep
me guessing, what patch of
light falls
across your face, what doorway
is made
dark by the breath of your
passing?
Midnight passes like this, with
worrying
and tracking the ticking sound
of the
hallway clock that is not you,
that does
not sound like your heel clicks
across
our marble floors or the heavy
sigh that
strains your chest with fury or
some mad
frustration you shall never
voice.
Every evening I wait for sight
of you like a
lonely comet streaking across
the distant sky,
I’m needing you constantly and
you need me
temporarily like a postman or a
milkman,
some stranger to void the
silence until you
leave him, with only tears to
mark your
presence and the hollowed shape
of your
body still pressed against my
pillow.
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