I hear the Gods' creaking words
in my pillow every night,
and I make them my impression
of you, and what I think you would
want to say to me.
Maybe you are their voice,
maybe they are your voice
maybe I am your voice,
maybe you are my voice-
maybe it's just me.
I know, in a way, it is just me.
I roll over, and whisper that I am doing so,
so you can follow me to my other cheek,
even though that's dumb.
The rustle comes up to meet me
"Are ... you ... okay?"
A question I want to hear,
but don't want to answer.
"Secret...", my pillow crackles.
Makes sense, if I think on it.
Maybe it is just me,
and what I would say.
"Excuse..."
Sounds like what I would say,
though I don't know why.
Maybe you're why.
I know, in many ways, you are why.
I roll onto my back, with no warning,
to examine my ceiling.
"I love you", I project from my mind
and into the air.
"Sorry..." the ceiling fan hums back.
I feel the familiar tingle in my nose
of tears that won't be born,
and it turns into a yawn,
which I stifle in resentment.
I deserve to cry, I deserve that much.
Or maybe I get what I deserve, I don't know.
Actually, in a way, I do know.
I know that that's just the way things happen,
I know you are my reason,
I know that I am all I will ever have.
I know
you are why
it's just me.