After your mother died, you told me
just how aware you are of how little time we have to love one another.
It's probably selfish of me, then
to sit here, shifting in my chair
waiting for you to love me.
But you say nothing.
I'm to assume based on what you don't say.
The part of me that grew into us
she isn't feeling so strong lately.
She won't stop staring at my flaws
won't stop looking for a place to empty out hot handfuls of blame.
My thoughts are taking up too much of the bed again,
a wild skirmish of "why not" and "how come".
you stopped seeing the best in me when we got comfortable
i let you see me so close up that i went out of focus.