In my sleep
I beg you
Not to do the thing
You are not doing.

I call to you
Over and over,
Waking in a panic
That I have betrayed my reality.

You appear to me in crowds,
Where I see you in strangers
Who bare no resemblance.

I double take
And take again,
Searching for your face.

I bring you up in conversation
Because most stories
And topics
Are scored by the song
Of your memory.

I beg myself to stop,
To let silence overtake your name,
But still, I talk about you.

Like an aftertaste varnishing my mouth,
You linger.
Maybe, in my speaking,
I am trying to spit you out.

I plead with myself
That it is only proximity
That keeps you on the periphery
Of my perception.

That time enough
Has not gone by
To rinse your stain
From my senses.

Or it follows that new strain
In the same place
Would rouse an aching
In old wounds.

I wonder if I could be
Keeping a secret from myself.
If part of me knows something
The rest of me doesn't.

No, it could not be that I dream,
I search, I speak
In hope.

No, it is not
An involuntary manifestation
Performed by the masochistic
Other Self.

If the vestiges of you
Navigate through fear,
I will need to be brave.

If they are self-conjured aspirations,
A punishment must be found.

But maybe it is simply
The way of injury
And restoration.

That the grief
Should wax and wane
Until a different sun rises.