I wanted to call you--
in the wee hour, when only
      the roach stirs, or
      the cat light-stepping
across
some unseen shadow--
my soft quick patter
      there was no choice, what's
      one rushed goodbye
there would have been a fight
let's be mature
      about this--

            I want to say this
pragmatism is humiliating
it hurts the heart
      a little
a man would hang
on the last word
from such lips--
      but I didn't
call, you might be sleeping
      it's hard for you
      to sleep on
warm nights like this.

Instead
I sit alone quietly
watching my own shadow
      indistinct, that
dark second guess of me
thoughts of care and cowardice--
a fine bright line
      of morning
            falls
there on the floor, from which
each moment clearer and more fierce
the insects flee.