These ivory, ceramic keys have become foreign
to the grooves cutting across my finger prints.
I force the unfamiliar notes
into the dusty air, and smile
because you once whispered
        I love you because no one else can.

I find myself escaping from dreams
and opening doors into different rooms.
Blue and orange striped sheets,
corduroy cushions,
a white, sleepless bed
greet my coffee muddled irises
as I un-glue eyelids from lens.
And as your pale blue eyes pierce through mine
during these influential moments,
I begin laughing as you whisper
        I love you because no one else will.

I have started to count the seconds it takes
for an ant to scurry across my wood floor.
Two hundred and sixty-three days later
I heard a knock on my door.
Sunlight outlines your blackened figure
and we both whisper
        *I love you because I don't know how to love another.