each morning brings nothing;
this is good. a gift often
overlooked.

in this quiet
i am neither here nor there;
dead, alive;
have never existed, never wanted
made movement whatsoever,
let alone
lifelong mistakes.

until it wakes, makes it move
and as if forgotten
in morning's thoughtless air;
how easily silence, like a ribbon,
slips from fingers, unspoken hope
to the floor.

and all of the everything, giant-high
as the space between blanket-lain bodies
and a starry vast sky,
is louder
than the knife of goodbye,
as fatefully simple
as the universe apart
by paper cut.