nearing nine years

Nearing nine years,
there are days when the tears
are not for missing you
but for the realization
of my failure
in thinking of you
for even a single day.

if not for the sun-bright

lowdownbreakdown-
a funk of which seems
and yet is
not nine non nuf nill

it’s the cold

I hate winter hours when
I am not cocooned
wrapped in the fire of flesh

if not for the sun-bright
I would wither

of that I was unsure

I dreamt last night
you said I love you, soft
of that I was unsure
and came awake knowing
it was wrong, that
I don’t know you at all

I walk about

Bookshelves under the bar;
in the living room near the kitchen;
in the hall to the tiny study
which contains a legal width,
four foot tall WWII file cabinet
that smells of musk and old paper
in drab, drab olive green, a
desk, a printer credenza;
in the too slim hall to the bedroom;
in the bedroom opposite the foot
of the bed -
the bedroom where
dresser, side tables and storage bin
are to be found.

I walk about with bruised
shins, knees, thighs
murmer to myself.

Where are you?
My home feels empty.

in the garden fertile

It didn’t come on
sudden
I’ve watched it
like a lizard on the ledge
in the sun
admitted to
movement below catching
my gaze half-lidded.

I’ve watched it
growing
in the garden fertile

Drawn by the warmth
and the space
it consumes
a’feared to approach
but the burn may be more stronger
than a little lizard
can coolly
walk on by.

A logical progression or when to be sure he absolutely digs you

not forgetting
your laptop needs upgrading
and telling you
he'll make it happen