Segment of this Thing

February 21, 2004

Silently struggle as I lay in bed
and stare at the newest clue.

Morning whispers came to my head,
and he said, "I missed you."

"I hear the light touch you,"
I whispered to the quiet air.

Soft down, soft pillow blue
under my head and hair.

"You haven't gone yet," I said.
I sigh as his thoughts unwind.

Hear the rush of blood red,
wanting and needing more time.

"I'm honest, now," he repeated.
"I will only tell you the truth."

Twenty-three years defeated,
lies spoken deftly, without proof.

"I miss the lies," I reply.
I turn over in bed, alone.

He returns with the moonrise
and he sinks into my bones.

Nothing on earth is like this,
and nothing will change my need.

Fingers pretend this is his,
sleep prowls to me, and feeds.