It's so early
I'm forgetting
what she looks
like
when I haven't
seen her
for a couple
days.

I want to
see
her all
the time

to memorize
her quicker
than she
is disappearing.

I catch
what moments
I can

like flaming snow
from a firework
shriveling to
ash

in
my fingers.



Boredom, with
its table
of
queer
instruments,
deals
out
its
agony.

In a German
accent
it urges
me to
go
outside,
to busy
myself
to look
away so
the hours can slip by
unnoticed.

I
refuse.

I want to
be alone
with the
pain,

the palpable
absence,
the
only feeling
equal
to her presence.

This pain
is the proper
debt for
what
she will
bring.

Out of
the
dark,
her face
comes
in a
flash.
She is beginning
to live
in me
already.

The memories
are slowly
fusing
to my
flesh.

Imagination is remembering
a future
that
never comes
true.

I can almost remember
the future

the future
where she
is hiding,
waiting.