I find myself,
without any heads up,
awake, and thinking of her.
I almost believe,
no, in fact I do,
that you just got up,
in the other room,
getting dressed,
and in a moment or two,
will come back to rest,
your head on my breast.
It’s as if the Elizabethan sonnet never went out of style.
It’s as if Stein’s abstractivity makes you the window and me the tree.
It’s as if you know what I’ll write before I write it.
It comes as such a shock when I see you’re not
there. Walls bare, and glaring, patronizing,
defying my thoughts, and curtains drawn
closed, devoid of your touch.
I wake up alone, staring at my phone, hoping it’ll say you hate me.