The night descended to that.
You, sunny side up,
queasiness inhabiting you
as if a change of season,
eyes damp with lethargy.

We planned to depart,
myself, a few others,
spilling well-wishes through the door
to your sanctuary,
dreamcatcher holding your reveries,
books like sentences of teeth
on your shelves.

I left, passenger seat,
with my language a glue in the throat.
The episode quite gone,
thunderous concert of silence,
only windchime giggles that filtered
through the dark.

It is what has become customary.
The bullet-point reeling-off of events,
each spark with its own named shade.
My hollow words missing the yolk
of conversation, vacant bottles
lost to the ocean, skin flecked with rust.

I ought to love you more,
this platonic, solid love.
Perhaps I should **** myself free
from the shipwreck, dust off
my catastrophes and breathe,
revel in your odysseys, let you know
my spoke of mishaps,
let us accept each other with clean hands.