Missing names in my letterbox— but mostly yours.
And I have no right to claim it, no reason to expect
your name to arrive again.

I try to write it out— all that it was between us.
A love so bizarre, so hard to define, yet somehow… 
_energizing._ But I want to cut the ties my eyes have 
to their tiredness— but I’m still oddly entangled
in the thought of falling asleep to the memory of you.

_Tired! Tired!_

But no rest compares to you, or the rest I see.
And maybe—
just maybe— the measure I hold love to now
is too tight, too closed, to give anything new
even a chance.