I wrote a poem on Friday,
as I sat on the February concrete
and you floated in the air.
I wrote a poem on Friday
at four o’clock in the afternoon
and the sun hung high.
February breathed into my hair.
I was on my eighth cup
of Folgers Vanilla Biscotti with Splenda.
All I wanted to do was sleep,
but the routine of opening the circular lid,
scooping into the black soil, soothed me.
I want to sleep you away—
just close my eyes
and drift out of love.
But you are there too.
At that moment just as
I’m waking up
I swear I can hear your voice.
So although my dreams escape before
I'm completely awake,
I know you are there.
I want to remember, to be there again,
but just can’t do it
anymore.
You are everywhere, even when you are not.
