i miss you more than we thought i would

i ache for memories i’ve never lived.
you, curled into my shoulder
while the cool breezes of morning
dance through our window
blowing loose pages gently across our floor
our pants bunched uncomfortably against our thighs
after tossing and turning through the night
so, we take them off

later, the burdensome bundling in coats
to help you carry stacks of books
down the creaky steps of a brownstone
only to retreat from the cold, then
retreat from the warmth and settle in.
comfortable jeans and oversized sweatshirts
well-crafted novels by authors undiscovered
a pen holding my hair from my face

and your return.
i ache for the memory of your return,
a memory i never lived
the slow, sultry click of the clock like a metronome
carrying my life along a rhythm,
a rhythm that you do not—that
you could not—follow, on the
unfamiliar instruments you play now to
keep your hands busy.
i could never concern myself enough
with the needs of your hands to
keep you.

i could never concern myself enough
with the needs of your hands to
keep you complacent.

• Category: Poetry