I memorize the weather
and the motion of your breathing
and the small popping sounds of fireworks
outside the window.
It's the middle of the night, Memorial day weekend.
I started out by sleeping
with my arm around you and when I had the first IMPORTANT THOUGHT I was
determined not to get up and write it down--
trusting that my memory
would march clear and true
in the morning.
But how many times have I been certain I would remember something--that's such a **** good idea for godsakes!--
only to wake to a blank gaping hole
where mountains and clouds
and the expression of a heart’s intentions
once were?
I let my arm fall further into your soft middle as I imagine myself standing and going to my desk--and then I don't do it.
And now I am hovering, lost in the warmth of your smell and the deep night...
somewhere between the last
thought that I remember
and the next one I write--
a souvenir
of the leap
into the unknown.