Each night slips by
almost unexpected
yet no longer a surprise.
He said so

himself: this time,
she is already enough
for what he needs.
I lie awake now, flat

and placid as glass.
Two darknesses pass
at the window, pressing
toward each other. One
cloistral, the other vast.

And my eyes flicker
open, shut, like pages
in an ancient book,
an archive folded
and full of dust;

I have long since learned
that I can never burn
enough. And I keep
waking

breathless, drenched
in another night sweat
and covered with ash.
Each brief pulse beats
new meaning

into simple couplings
of words: love you. Miss
you. Move on.
So we wait, inclined


and almost like lovers;
like empty cups, or palms
open and facing up. Minds
stupefied and hearts

hardened
into unscalable pedestals,
parallel variations
of expectation

and compliance.
We are no longer able
to withstand another glance,
a thought

or each other
as each slow night
just slips by. Now,
almost

unexpected, he closes
the door so quietly
when he comes

and as he goes.