IF This Is It

We sit
       together,
you in my arms.

I twist my fingers
through your beautiful
Indian fingers,
your body warm
next to mine.

You sing like you did
in the French hotel,
glasses of rose
left on the table
for posterity

And
I feel
only

space

between us.


(I wake up)


I listen, ignore you
answer half-awake
"yeah, uh huh"
I know I am already too late.

The cops are at the front door
because love can linger on
much longer than it should,
the yelling from the bedroom
only gets louder.

Life is opaque here,
Tuesday night turns to
Thursday morning
without tears.

To get up to walk across
a dirty hallway crashing
on speed   is to lose
direction.

Drooped over a table
drinking the rest of the rose
with broken glass that has been
on the floor for days.
I still lose my incomprehensible breath
when I think
about how beautiful you are
about how the magic beats the realism,

the knocking on the door becoming

Louder

louder

lou-