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.