Morgan

16

'"The Middle Months"

Light is flashing behind the blinds
and thunder is grumbling in my (empty) stomach.
I've never awakened for a night storm,
only heard the "how did yous"
from those who saw with sanded eyes,

but this time I awoke
(nestled between dreaming and present)
and found you pressed to my drooping side,
breathing, ticking to the rain drops.

It's Monday now (another week has slipped
through our knuckles)
and soon you'll peel yourself from my side
for another day of retired
dreams (everyday nothings)

while I stay here, hunched over and sweated
to these sheets. I'm shriveled again (aren't I?) -

time sands us
as we lay side to side, you (dreamed, drowsy),
me (dreary, diminished),  and in these early hours

I'm selfish: I want more days (a thousand
raindrops in a jar) and younger bones,
bones like fluttering kites-

but I'm wasting mind down, from my ears
to bed-stuck heels.

This middle hour I'm watching lightning strike
scarred shave cuts on your face,
your resting brow,
the stubble of your chin-

you're older now, no more child's glow
to your wrinkled skin,
but you'll wake before sunlight
yolks the sky

and leave me with these thoughts
(thoughts like raisins).

Here I am

wishing for you sadly (silently)
to remember me
..........when I was full, well,
..........to teach me to be a memory again,

but it would take the rest of your days
to weed my dandelion eyes
(wouldn't it?)