My fingernail draws flower-petal thin numbers on the table top -
sticks to my palms like perfume from a lifetime ago.
I seem to take the path
of eggshells; not yet traveled,
but born in the buzzing that yields to you
deep from my soul.
The older I get, the
more drawn I am to this idea,
the less understanding,
I am for this hunger
yet I bow to it - like a
in-love with love itself.
Today I dreamt of you:
myself in sweat pants, unclothed
by the things that normally make
me beautiful while I woke
to your phantom face feigning like a
ghost beside mine on the pillow.
of you so solid
in this memory-moment of mine
that I could feel the weight
of you beside me
on the bed. Then alone.
Tonight: out to dinner,
and a heart hot and full from wine,
just sitting, thinking:
my fingernail draws flower-petal thin numbers on the table top -
and you embracing the age of self
knowing so fully who you are;
without need or adjustment,
but then there's me.
trying to convince
you that I know myself, as
opposed to actually showing you.