Orpheus
this is the moment of truth
and it comes only at night
waking me, leaving me
tinged with my sweat
and anxious, as though i
could remember a nightmare,
but … i don’t.
the slippery whisper of memory
tells of the unextraordinary
small moments of living
like that time in the grass
or the ever-brief public encounter
we exist, together.
and except for the first time,
i have forgotten this forced absence
i dream of you as though
you were dead, but you’re not
so you sit silent, and
i revive only your ghost.