I didn't mean to dream you

into the emptiness of my arms,

the cool moist space on

red tartan basement sofas,

but you were there, liquid

spooned into the silver bowl of my body,

until daybreak turned my hands incomplete,

white light rotting the apples

of my words all too quickly.

For in waking I must catch myself

from holding you, speak in stilted

hellos as your reality drifts by

happy without me. So we pass each other

like days with brief smiles

my silence left with the memory

of brittle windchime touches, of how

I brushed your shoulder twice and

we were already gone.

Copyright (c) 2000 by Beth Kinderman. This is my original work, so please respect it.