Supine
On the floor
Of an unfinished treehouse

I stare into
The glow
Of a Wednesday
Morning.

My sketch pad
And a few
Unfinished books
Scattered around me
Some are fiction
Others not.

I stare into the
The ever lightening
Sky, searching
For inspiration.

She took that with
Her.

I lost a sense of
What beauty is
When I no
Longer woke to
Her eyes.

Poems and sketches sit
half finished
And I lie half
-- of what I was.

In a world that
Has such a complete
Understanding
Of every
Morning
Breath.

I remember the
Morning she
Said "goodbye"
Instead
Of "I love you."
?Looking around
The room
Clothes hung from the side
Of the laundry basket,
Books sat half-finished
On the bookshelf,
Her dresser drawer, empty now,
Was still open.

A chickadee was
Singing outside
And her now vacant spot
On my bed was
A valley of
Forgotten pillows.

The blankets twisted
Like a river
Through it,
She had taken months, to
Find the right patterns
For them.

I glanced to the windowsill
She used to keep her
Hair binders on. There were
Small rings of dust
Around their spot.

I still sleep on
The right side of
And that chickadee
Sings again, every morning.

But the pillows and blankets.
Have lost their form.

With the blatant
Guess work
Of a my
First chemistry
Set
The girl
In the denim jacket
Reaches for
Creamers,
And sweeteners,
And sugars.

First one
Then another
And then the first again.

Each time
Tasting her
Iced-coffee
To see
If it is just right.

A child cries in the corner.

Her father tries to console
Her screams.

I laugh to myself
As I wonder if her
Coffee didn't turn out just right.

The girl in the jacket
Is still
Mixing
And tasting.

She has pretty auburn hair.

Across the street,
The railroad crossing
Sign swings down.
Crying out a
Familiar
Ding, ding,
Ding, ding.

A group of graduate
Students
Discuss the complexities of art
Over a yellow pad
And some chai lattes.

"There's more to it than that,"
The oldest one says,
His voice raised as he stands.

I take a sip of my coffee
And look to the counter.
The baristas here
Don't smile on Saturdays.

The cute one makes a mocha,
While the other takes an old man's
Order.

The girl in the denim
Walks toward her seat,
A backpack in hand.

The crossing gate still chimes.
Ding, ding,
Ding, ding.

I debate adding some
sweetener
To my coffee,
But remember
I like it black.

I debate
Discussing the
Complexities of art

But decide I like
it
simple.

The crossing gate
Continues to ring
Ding, ding.

I like it better
Here during
The week, when
The baristas
Remember to
Smile.

The sunlight draws
Warm light
On your neck
You've turned
In the night
An the covers reveal
Your legs

You breathe
Quiet as
Your ******* push
Against my
Tee shirt

In the light it is
Clear like cellophane

I run my hand
Along your thigh
And along
The grey
Lace
Edge of
Your *******

You look at me with
Those deep
Eyes

We kiss

Your lips are
Soft
And wet
And delicious

I am watching TV
on Saturday afternoon,
when
trash
reality television
comes on.

I flip
vacantly
through the channels.

My roommate's dog
begins barking
at dogs on a
commercial about
dog food.

I decide to change
The channel to DOGTV.

The colors are strange,
A dichromatic thing.

But
the music is
relaxing.

The dogs can watch it
So, I can
get to writing
poetry.

My hands find a
pen and
notebook,
and I begin
to write:

"Shopping List:
1. dog food..."

Mirrored eyes catch mine,
A smile -- springtime windows try
To light your dark home.

Wind pounds at
The window

Of the new apartment
My fingers fond the weather app
Patchy fog it says,

And a high of 36.

It is clear I should stay
In bed another hour.

My red plaid pajama pants
Are far too comfy

For the fog.