I have dealt with your silence before.
I have managed in absence,
in a fake disbelief,
that love should ever
fall upon my door.

This is no novel
or wine-glass introduction.
This is more a friction of times past;
tectonic memories,
building to destruction.

There is no need to hold you up
after midnight, to hand you
my dreams, in the lack of
pillow-talk.

When I lay down my mind,
you vanish from sight,
though return once again
upon my morning walk.