I woke, eyes blurry, as you packed your bag
the morning after I pushed my hand into your jeans
under flashing lights, after I made you shiver without
anyone else noticing. I hid your thin blue shirt,
hems unraveled with wear, under the blankets.
I never wanted you to stay, but I needed something
that would remind me you were here. If you return
on a rainy night, I will dress you in it again.
1 Comment
November 26, 2008 at 9:14 pm
This is great. I love that it’s made mostly of these two long sentences — building this tension that’s released in the last shorter one. And that’s some title.