I'm lying next to you,
knowing daylight will soon
slowly fill this room and
I will see you;
You will see me.
Here at twenty one
on a low mattress in a small living room somewhere,
we are falling asleep together.
Now at forty-seven,
while it's still
dark in the morning,
I still
feel the same.
Maybe some things always live,
like the man in Paris who always wore his hat or
that balcony with the light always, inexplicably on
or two people who kept seeing each other throughout their lives
in in-between's.
Years of "Goodbye, darling" and ending up where we started,
is an odd story.
Cold December at sixty-one,
maybe we will laugh about it with tea and something to eat
but now,
look ―
the room around us is painted in morning light and I see you.
Do you see
me?