A look inward brings me back to you,
to us on this bed
that tells our stories in colored sheets
you never notice
except when I strip them
each Monday as you leave.
And I see you now in my mind
while I smile,
not pretentious but reminiscing,
some isolated nostalgia
of past escapades when we did not know of each other —
even now throughout so many years
there are secrets that sleep here with me,
with us in dreams.
The very thought of you chills me,
but I cannot let go
because I will be fractured beyond repair
if I stop thinking of the man
you ought to be,
not the man you think you are.
Here and there tells the story
and the very thought of me
erases it all
disregarding who I ought to be as well
until you can find the way
to scoop me up and make us whole again.