Even Your Name

Still sleeping
Lethargic and
Tortured
As it might be with us
Living together
Sorrowful at moments
Peaceful and
Joyous too
The cup of your breast
In my hand delivered
Unwavering.

But in the morning your shadow
Is but a stain on the wall
I have trouble seeing the
Color of your eyes
Or making sense out of
Wanting to get home to you
I think more and
Create less
And sometimes in the middle of the day
I’ve even forgotten your name

We were supposed to go on
Like a möbius loop
With the texture of harmonics
And the smoothness of windless water
But instead we are a book unread
A bit battered in the travels
Collecting dust and
Getting looks of regret
From one of its only
Two readers.