It is Sunday. Haven’t I been here before? I miss you. I’m reading old letters I sent you, asking myself what went wrong, what have I done again this time, like all the other times when I wake up the next day to find myself alone once more. I wish I could say I have gotten better at it, that it doesn’t hurt as much as the first time, and that it will be over before I know it. But who am I kidding. Here’s another truth though, no matter how ugly: I’ll live. Though knowing that doesn’t make things easier, yes?
Had We Nothing to Prove
Had we nothing to prove
we might have leaned all night at that window,
merely beside each other,
watching Peel Street, wrought-iron gates
and weather vanes, black lace of trees
between cautious Victorian silhouettes;
but there were obligations, the formalities
of passion; so we sealed the shutters
and were expedient in the brevity of night;
reading with empty sockets moonlight in dull hair,
softness to chafed thighs;
both of us anxious and shaking the night,
with all my arm, she with fingers and gentle;
no hope for silver leaves in the morning.
And always a glance for the brightening windows,
a suspension of breath for the hearing of birds
and incantations to the sun
which stirs in dust behind stone horizons.