you don’t have to know
that when i wake up and the light is low
when i glimpse at myself in a dark window
i think about how late you used to get home

no matter the time
I was happy to be woken by your gentle steps, your sneaking into your own bed
it was an ironic reversal of what i expected when i let you lie me down in it

the sheets rustle, the early morning sun barely lights up the room and my bed fellow can’t hold me close enough for my heart to feel them, too.

so i steal passion from a fire past
and craddle the ashes as if they could warm me

the frailty – a tender addiction
the impotential – a safety blanket
you – still have me waiting.