Missing names in my letterbox— but mostly yours.
And I have no right to claim it, no reason to expect
your name to arrive again.
I try to write it out— all that it was between us.
A love so bizarre, so hard to define, yet somehow…
energizing. But I want to cut the ties my eyes have
to their tiredness— but I’m still oddly entangled
in the thought of falling asleep to the memory of you.
Tired! Tired!
But no rest compares to you, or the rest I see.
And maybe—
just maybe— the measure I hold love to now
is too tight, too closed, to give anything new
even a chance.
